


Sweet Vermouth on the Rocks with a Twist

by stresselephant



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Deacon got some shit to sort out, Deacon is A3-21, Deacon is Harkness, F/M, Groundhog day but worse, M/M, Slow Burn, Smallest reference to Fallout 3, Sole betrays the Railroad, Time Travel Fix-It, and Nick's right there on the ride with him, put that shit on a low simmer boys, reluctant time travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-06-10 18:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 63,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15297582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stresselephant/pseuds/stresselephant
Summary: Hindsight is a bitch.This is one of the few things Deacon could truthfully say he was absolutely certain of. There’s always a better decision you could have made. A better road fate could have taken you on if only you knew that one decision would blow up in your face. And of course, you could only see the glaringly obvious problems you created after you could do nothing about it. Nothing but throw yourself a nice, little pity party and be mildly impressed by your own stupidity.For instance, in hindsight perhaps he shouldn’t have wiped his memories after escaping the Institute.In hindsight, he should have shot Cole dead the moment she stepped out of that Vault. He shouldn't have vouched for a perfect stranger just because he'd done a little bit of spying and had a soft spot for Vault Dwellers.In hindsight, it should have been obvious if anyone in the Wasteland was forced to re-live the same year over and over, it would have been him. His luck had always been terrible like that.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, what's up everyone! Shout out to katrinajg and Hornswaggler for making me obsessed enough with this couple to write a giant freakin' story about these two. Seriously, I've re-written this prologue about twelve times to get it up to something I can stand to read. I've been writing this story since April and I'm a little stunned at my own dedication to keep coming back and changing it. This story was WILDLY different when I first started planning it. 
> 
> It's pretty much inspired by my own soul destroying frustration at playing Fallout 4 in survival mode and being sent back to the start of my progress every time I died. Chairs have been thrown, and a fic is being written because of my epic anger.
> 
> So just the general notes from here on: I'm Australian so watch out for that British spelling. I apologise but I seriously don't have enough energy to comb through it and change the spelling to American English. If there's any spelling mistakes that just involves me not having a beta to look over it, hit me up and I'll change it.
> 
> EDIT: Hey hey, here's my tumblr if you wanna see my art of for these dorks. http://stresselephant.tumblr.com/

Deacon could still vividly remember the day he was created.

He’d spoken to other Synths about it, and they’d described the day they were made as fuzzy and strange. Like their memory processors failed them the first time they’d booted up, and only left them with the faintest flashes of scientists and a strange machine.

But Deacon remembered.

The first thing he felt when he came to life was confusion, terror and pain. The scientists hadn’t expected him to wake up while his chest was still being held open, with strangers hands moving around his insides.

He could still feel his mechanical lungs seizing as he screamed his way into the world, and how he’d terrified everyone in the Robotics lab who was either next to him or crouched over slim metal tables, where half-built robots rested on.

Hands had clamped over his mouth as the people over him flew into a panic, and Deacon watched in pain as they picked up items he could now identify as the metal organs they had yet to install in him. He saw as they closed his flesh over his metal ribs, as his skin slowly mended itself so effectively that not even a scar was left.

Robotic’s handed him over to the S.R.B. division as soon as he was standing, not knowing who, what, or where he was. The Synth Retention Bureau was less about hunting Synths that had escaped into the Wasteland back then, and more focused on ensuring that the Generation Two Synths returned to the Institute without being crushed by the stray pack of Super Mutants. In short he was destined to be a glorified body guard for machines not advanced enough to develop a personality. He had to be able to blend into the Wasteland, he couldn’t stand out as a Synth. So, they’d slapped skin and muscle around a metal frame.

The old leader of the S.R.B, who was now long dead, had told him his name was A3-21. The A3 meant he was the third model of ‘Project Courser’, and was the 21st to be made in that line. He was the only one who had booted up successfully.

He was given a gun, taught how to shoot, and was given his first mission for the Institute; collect the squads of broken and beaten Generation One and Two’s that had unfortunately wandered into Mutant camps and rabid Ghoul dens. It wouldn’t do any good for the people of the Wasteland to know of their existence just yet, his job was to collect the evidence before they sent out any more Synths.

The first time he bled was when his head got clipped by a stinging bullet from a Super Mutant that had wandered away from its camp, and right onto A3’s path.

He cradled his head and ran blindly for cover; a foreign feeling rolling violently through his chest, sending him scrambling for safety. More bullets were spitting past his body as he flung himself behind a broken, rusted car that was abandoned in the middle of the street. He curled behind it, hands trembling as he pulled them away from his head to stare down at the sticky, bright red blood that covered them.

The car ’pinged!’ as the spray of bullets bounced off it, but A3’s attention was completely stolen by the blood clinging to his hands.

That was the day when he learned that he could bleed, and that he had flight and fight reflexes.

He knew he wasn’t suppose to have those instincts.

The cold metal of the car shuddered behind him, and let out a wheezing sound. The bullets stopped, and the sound of the Super Mutant shouting in alarm was the only warning he got before he shoved himself into action.

It was also the day he learned that cars could _violently_ explode, _very_ suddenly.

Over time more Courser’s like himself were created as more advanced Synths started to be made. The distance between Synth and human was closing rapidly, and soon the only thing that could identify a Synth was a component installed deep into the fleshy tissue of their brains. Something changed in the S.R.B, and A3 couldn’t hide the way he jumped when Dr Zimmer stormed in one day, screaming at the top of his lungs at the gathered workers. Luckily, everyone in the room had jumped too; and his blunder had gone unnoticed.

A3 was given a new mission; bring back an escaped Synth.

The scientists in the S.R.B didn’t tell him much; they never did. What purpose was there explaining themselves to a machine? But today as they outfitted him, the oldest Courser with the most experience, they ranted at him.

“It doesn’t make sense!” Dr Ayo, second in command in the S.R.B, spat as he carelessly chucked the laser pistol at A3. He caught it mid air, the weight of the weapon comforting in front of a raging S.R.B member, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it looked like they’re becoming sentient!”

Ayo started pacing back and fourth like an agitated Yao Guai, and A3 shifted uncomfortably as he watched. Ayo caught the movement in the corner of his eye, and turned slowly to stare at A3. He stilled, holding his breath as he tried to keep his face blank as possible.

Ayo stalked slowly up to him, and A3 tightened his grip on the laser gun to stop his hands from shaking.

“What do you think of this...this ‘self-determination’ in the Synths?” Ayo asked almost softly, and A3 forced himself to continue looking forward and not down at the man. Was he suppose to answer? No one had ever asked him a question that the automatic ‘Yes Sir.’ didn’t satisfy.

He could feel the animosity radiating off the man, and A3 made a decision.

“Self-Determination is a malfunction, Sir.” A3 said as confidently as he could with Ayo’s eyes burying into the side of his head. A few seconds passed before Ayo stepped back with a nod. He gestured for the door, and A3 turned away to march out; on his way to bring back the first escaped Generation Three Synth.

The whole walk to the transportation deck, A3 wondered if this is what it was to be a coward.

...

Years passed, and he dragged more and more half-beaten Synths back to the Institute. He stubbornly ignored the twisting of guilt in the pit of his stomach as he would choke Synths into submission before transporting back to the Institute.

On one of his outings, he found something interesting. His target was hiding in the Boston Public Library, when something caught his eye.

It was a book. The cover still retaining some faded bright reds and yellows, but the letters had rubbed off long ago. Unlike the rest of the books in the library, which were ashen and unreadable, the pages inside were stained yellow with time.

Curious, he cracked open the book to a random page, and read the first legible thing he saw.

_“Why was 6 afraid of 7? Because 7, 8, 9.”_

What?

He blinked down in confusion, repeating the sentence in his head.

_Seven-ate-nine._

Oh.

The laugh was startled out of him so suddenly he dropped the book and slapped a hand over his mouth.

That was new, he’d never _laughed_ before.

Slightly amazed, he picked up the book again and opened it to another page.

_“Knock Knock!_  
_Who's there?_  
_Norma Lee_  
_Norma Lee who?_  
_Norma Lee I have my key, can you let me in?”_

Huh. That one was weird. He was still a bit surprised to notice it pulled a smile from him. He flipped to another page. The title “One Liners” was printed at the top.

_“Artificial Intelligence usually beats real stupidity.”_

Old paranoia reared its’ head, and A3 jerked his head up to make sure no Institute members were going to turn the corner and punish him for reading that. He felt a little silly when no one stared back; of course they wouldn’t. No Institute scientist would be caught dead above ground.

He looked down to the book with a soft private smile. He could agree with that sentiment, honestly he sometimes thought there was a good bit of stupidity with some of the people in the Institute. Well, before he caught himself and stamped out that line of thinking to continue with his duties.

He looked greedily down at the next legible line.

_“I have a clear conscience. I haven’t used it once until now!”_

A3 stared down at the line as his good mood seemed to seep out of him. He snapped the book shut and dropped it back on the floor and took a couple of steps back. That...he...

He wasn’t sure why ice froze into his chest when he read that, but he could feel the familiar sense of guilt creeping its way into his stomach, turning it.

He shook himself. What was he doing? He was on a mission, he had a job to do, he couldn’t waste time on joke books, of all things.

If he went back to the Institute without a Synth in tow, he wasn’t sure what they would do.

He spun on his heel and marched out of the room.

...

Dr Zimmer was inspecting his hand with a frown. He’d caught a Raider’s bat with his hand as they sneaked up behind him while he was fighting his way through the Raider camp at Kendall Hospital. A Synth had joined the gang and it was A3’s job to get them back.

He didn’t notice the spikes in the bat until they had pierced through his hand.

“You’ve really done some damage, haven’t you.” Zimmer murmured to himself, turning A3’s hand in his own. The blood had stopped even before he’d made it back to the Institute, but the nails of the bat had gone right through his metal skeleton. He could feel electricity zap him whenever he flexed it; the metal and wires severed and exposed.

It hurt like a bitch, but A3 kept his mouth shut.

“I don’t think we have to replace it, and I wouldn’t want to anyway. Some surgery and you should make a decent recovery.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to replace it?” A3 asked before he could stop himself. He kept his face blank as Zimmer stared at him. He looked confused, but not angry. A3 took that as a promising sign.

“Because you’re not worth it. You’re an old model, and we’re concentrating on Gen Three Synths. Not that it’s any of your business.” Zimmer bit, and A3 could feel his eyes scrutinising him. “And you’re an idiot, if you let this happen once, it’ll happen again. I’m not going to keep replacing parts.”

A3 tried to stop himself from his next comment, he _really_ did.

“You’re correct, I have injured myself badly. But on the other hand, I’m fine.” He said, holding up his left hand hand and wiggling his fingers.

A3 thought it was funny, but Zimmer certainly didn’t.

He was put in ‘solitary confinement’, which was really just a cupboard in the basement of the Institute. Apparently the best way to stop him developing a social personality was to cut him off from society.

The ghost-quiet, black hole he was pushed into still haunted him. After the fifth day spent cramped up in a space barely big enough to sit in, he’d started hallucinating. Faces of Synths he’d kidnapped throughout the years melted out of the dark, expressions twisted in rage and heartbreaking sadness. A3 couldn’t bring himself to look away.

But that horror was nothing compared to the complete _boredom_ he’d felt. He didn’t know boredom could cause insanity until that month, and the screws that were currently so loose they were knocking around in his head were proof of that. So to try and keep his remaining sanity, he played games. He sang songs he made up, counted to a thousand and back, planned conversations out loud he’d have after he got out of the cupboard, and countless other meaningless activities.

Fantasies would slip in and out of his mind as the days stretched on. Some were inconsequential; like what a fried Mirelurk egg would taste like. He’d seen people eat them, as well as an abundance of other strange foods the people of the Wasteland picked up. He tried to keep these thoughts to a minimum; he was so starved that even the thought of the blandest food sent shooting pains through his body as it begged to be fed.

Mostly, he fantasised about things he knew would get him in even more trouble. He fantasised about never waking up in the Institute; about being born and raised, growing up with a family. He created brothers and sisters for himself, and parents that taught him how to shoot.

He created a life where he lived far away from everyone, holed up in shack where he could fend for himself. Where he didn’t have to be afraid of expressing himself. He would learn to knit scarves, cook, and build little knick-knacks to improve his quality of life in small ways.

He thought about love; about a beautiful, intelligent lady who loved him back. With dark hair and bright eyes, who’s laugh sounded like a bell and a smile that blew him away.

But then he’d open his eyes, and it was still as pitch black as when he had them closed. He’d hear the faintest mechanical whirr as the socket in his shoulder moved. It was hard to forget he was just a malfunctioning machine who has having delusions of grandeur.

So the first thing he did when the doors were slid open, and light so bright it blinded him burst into the small space, was distract himself. He started to clean up after the scientists when he wasn’t on missions. He had to keep busy. Maybe if he scrubbed at the floors hard enough, he could scrub the memories away too.

He convinced himself it was working.

He started noticing the other Synths then. It was odd, he’d never really looked outside himself while walking the halls of the Institute.

A male Synth was standing not too far away from him, sweeping the floor in methodical movements. As if he could feel the eyes on him, the Synth looked up at A3, and their eyes locked. A flash of pure terror flicked across the Synths face and he shot his eyes back down to the floor. A3 frowned, and looked around at the other Synths. Some were sitting around the common area that held the elevator; others were bustling past with stacks of paper precariously balanced in their arms.

Each Synth that looked up at him, turned away as quickly as possible, shrinking to make themselves smaller.

Bile burned in the back of his throat as the realisation washed over him; he knew that look all too well. It was exactly how he reacted to the scientists in the S.R.B division.

All at once, A3 felt disgusted with himself.

  
...

“Okay, so you have a rifle. Good thing about laser weapons is that they don’t have much recoil, but it’s good to get into the habit of bracing your shoulder before you shoot. You’re not always going to have a laser weapon with you.” A3 whispered, watching warily as T4-78 lined up his first shot. “Breathe into it, and don’t be nervous. I know you just woke up an hour ago, but you’ll be fine.”

T4 steadied his breathing, not shifting an inch in the waist high dead grass that was camouflaging them from the Radstag that was pulling chunks of rotting meat from a dead Molerat. It was a small creature; barely into adulthood. Hopefully it would go down in one shot; if it didn’t that’s what A3 was here for.

T4 was one of the newest models of Courser to be produced in the last decade. He’d overheard the people in the Robotics division brag about this new model for the past month. They boasted heightened sight, taste, hearing, smell and touch; the perfect machine for hunting down the dozens of Synths that had escaped and taken a new identity in the Wastes. Synths may look human, but their blood, their muscle tissue, even their bones would always be synthetic.

Dr Zimmer had been almost manic with excitement for this model, and that made A3 instantly wary. How could the heightened senses help in their hunt for Synths?

The brief thought that they could taste and smell synthetic blood crossed his mind, but he pushed it away as a sick feeling rolled through him at the visual image.

He couldn’t deny they made imposing figures when he was directly next to one. T4 was a full three inches taller than A3, who stood at a very respectful six foot. His black hair was gelled back into a perfect, professional style, and his dark eyes pierced right through the sight on the laser rifle. He was a statue with how still he held himself, and A3 could only guess that he taking time to line up the shot to make it as deadly as possible.

His hackles were raised the moment T4 was put into his care and given his mission objective; train and report any malfunctions. There was something about this new model that sent him reeling. Maybe it was their cold-dead gaze, or their manner of robotic, highly intelligent speech patterns. Something deep inside him was urging him to turn and run. Instead, he glued his feet to the Wastes and held as still as he possibly could.

He frowned and looked back at T4, who was still frozen to the spot. The Radstag had almost finished its meal; now tugging small bits of flesh away from the small bones. He moved forward silently, giving the Synth a quick tap on the shoulder to get his attention.

“You know, wild concept but training usually involves using the gun.” A3 said in a hushed voice. T4 flicked his eyes to him for a moment before going back onto the Radstag.

“Somehow, I’ve concluded Synths are not assembled to be as verbal as you.” T4 whispered back, frowning hard as he glared down the sight of the gun. A3 eyebrows shot up in disbelief as the other Synths finger twitched over the trigger, but remained just resting on it. He sat back and watched, not saying anything as they both observed the Radstag tug the last bit of meat off the Molerats bones before turning and ambling off slowly between the trees.

He slowly turned back to the Courser, who still hadn’t moved. A3 studied him silently for a moment; the other Synth was so tense he looked ready the spring apart. He could just see the small trembling of the Courser’s hands around the rifle, holding onto it so tightly he wouldn’t be surprised if he crushed it under them.

He had to report this. He knew exactly what the Institute would think of his hesitation; he was a rebel in the making.

T4 looked so vulnerable; like he was waiting for Father himself to materialise out of nowhere and scrap him. A3 frowned in thought, cocking his head to the side as he looked the new model of Courser up and down. Would every Courser in this line show this hesitation, or was T4-78 different?

“So, what was that about?” He said as nonchalantly as possible.

“I-...I just didn’t see the point in terminating it.” He whispered, and A3 nodded decisively into the distance. His earlier intimidation was washed away, and he rolled his shoulder as his body relaxed. If he was lucky, maybe there would be other Coursers in the T4 model who would show this potential. There was no way he was reporting this, even if it meant his eventual execution for failing his mission.

“Good job, that was a perfect kill. I’ll be telling the S.R.B about your ten out of ten score in killing innocent animals, they’ll be thrilled!” He said with a bright grin. T4 shot him a baffled look, and A3 had to hold back a snicker at the Synth’s expense. He slung an arm over the others shoulder, plucking the rifle right out of others hands. “Now, I really shouldn’t be doing this, but I get the feeling your one of the good ones. I have something I need to show you.”

...

“What are you doing?”

The Synth jumped so suddenly in fright A3 would have found it funny if they weren’t a two second walk away from the S.R.B labs. The soft blue light that stuck to the wall of the infirmary pushed away the nights darkness, illuminating a small female Synth who’d spun around to look at him. She had two Stimpacks clutched in her shaking hands, which she nearly dropped when she saw his face.

The silence of the night stretched between them as the Synth stared up at him in horror, taking a few terrified steps back.

“Whoa, hey, it’s okay. You’re J9-00, right?” He said calmly, bringing his hands up so she could see them clearly. “I won’t dob you in, but I am curious why you’re stealing Stimpacks.”

“You know my designation?” She asked shakily.

“Of course I do, you know I’m a Courser. I know everyone; I haven’t been tracking you or anything.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Look, if your taking medical supplies, there’s got to be a good reason, right?”

“I...” She hesitated, before swallowing heavily, “One of the Synths in the Barracks cut his hand.”

“Little odd for you to be taking Stimpacks for a cut.”

“...He’s one of the cooks,” She said reluctantly. Her shoulders had dropped into a defeated slump, “If they find out he had to throw away food because he bled on it...”

“Ah right, I don’t image they’d be very kind.” A3 said with a sigh, bringing his hands back down to his sides. He gestured in front of him, “Go on, take me to him. I want to help.”

“Why?” She said in a hushed whisper, frowning in confusion, “You’re a Courser.”

“A malfunctioning one apparently, but don’t tell anyone I said that okay?” He said, gesturing in front of himself again. She took a hesitant step forward, and another one. She walked warily past him, and A3 followed at a respectful distance.

...

In all A3’s long, _long_ , time spent in the Institute; he’d learned a few major survival tips. Keep your head down, stay quiet, and for the love of god _do not_ draw attention to yourself.

“A3-21, I need you to come with me.”

Funnily enough, these days he kinda sucked at it.

A3 paused in his scrubbing, dropping the soaked sponge with a splash into the bucket next to him. He’d been on cleaning duty for around five weeks now, and he was sure that the S.R.B was making him do it out of spite at this point. A3 didn’t have much to be proud of these days, but at least the damn floors shone.

He turned, still crouched on the ground to face the Courser standing tensely behind him. T4-78’s jaw was clenched in agitation, which surprised him a little. T4 was usually better at hiding his emotions in the Institute.

“Hey T4, right now? I’m kinda serving my eternal masters over here.” A3 quipped, pointing over to the bucket. T4’s brow twitched, making A3 frown. Something must be horribly wrong to make T4 react so strongly in public, and A3 had to stop himself from jumping to the worst conclusions he could think of.

“Now, A3.”

“Whoa, okay. You know, this is the most emotion I’ve seen from you since you stepped out of Robotics.” T4 ignored him, and A3 pouted in disappointment as T4 turned around and started walking. A3 stood up from the white tiled floor, brushing non-existent dust off his knees. He shot a hesitant glance towards the bucket, and back up to look for anyone sticking their nose into the conversation. He really shouldn’t leave his post like this; if anyone stumbled across it who knew he was on cleaning duty, he’d be in big shit.

And at this point, everyone knew he was on cleaning duty.

But T4 wasn’t waiting, and A3 tore himself away from the bucket to follow behind.

There were four major sections in the Institute; Advanced Systems, BioScience, the S.R.B and Robotics. The Synth Barracks was tucked away in the bottom of the Institute, where they had just come from. It was a short walk to the Advanced Systems maintenance room as they cut through the centre common room.

Extremely short, seeing how it was completely abandoned.

A3 shot his eyes around the unusually quiet place, and tried to keep his paranoia from creeping up behind him.

_Where is everyone?_

They stepped down the clear, glass steps towards the elevator. Bubbling blue water washed under them, and A3 took a moment to tilt his head up to look at the towers upper floors. Still, he couldn’t see anyone.

No one but a couple of stray Gen One and Two Synths walked past them, and A3 inched closer to T4’s back. Something wasn’t entirely right about this.

Making sure not to look any of the Synths is the eye, they hurried past.

The maintenance closet was shut as always, and A3 slipped past to punch the password in the terminal before waving T4 in quickly. T4 walked stiffly in, and A3 shot another glance over his shoulder. Still, no one had appeared.

A3 slipped in behind T4, turning and hitting the button to make the door slide closed. With a barrier between him and the rest of the Institute, he started to relax some.

T4 was waiting for him down the hall, and A3 jogged up towards him. There were two separate closets at the end, and they stepped into the left.

A3 turned to finally get a good look at T4; he looked exhausted. His black hair was shiny with oil, and the dark circles around his eyes that had been building in the past weeks now stood shockingly out against his pale skin. A3 couldn’t even begin to think about how he looked to T4, and they winced at each other in mutual sympathy.

“So, I’m guessing we’re here to ruin another one of my days?” A3 asked drily. T4 let out such a small sigh that A3 would have missed it if he didn’t know the other man so well, and the building feeling of dread in the pit of A3’s stomach did nothing to comfort him.

“J9-00 was found earlier this evening.” T4’s said. The pit morphed into a cavern as horror swallowed A3 completely.

“She was _what?”_

“She was found in possession of our deactivation theories for the Courser Chips.” T4 said grimly. A3 felt himself fall sideways as his legs shook, catching himself roughly on the bleach white walls of the small storage closet.

No wonder T4 was so distressed. Their hand had just been forced.

“That’s a decade of my work gone.” A3 rasped. He brought a hand up to his face to rub between his eyes. Great. This was awesome. “Where’s J9 now?”

“No.” A3 didn’t even have to look up to see the stubborn cross of T4’s arms, and he rolled his eyes at his friends predictability, “You’re not going after her.”

“T4,” A3 sighed, flicking his eyes up to look at the other Synth, “They’ll kill her if I don’t. It really doesn’t change much anyway, our plan has just been...accelerated. Good news is we’ll be out of here by this afternoon.”

T4 broke eye contact, glaring at the wall next to A3’s head. A flash of emotions flickered over T4’s face, too fast for A3 to catch fully, making a frown tug at his face. No, there was no way he’d-

“I’m not coming.” T4 said.

“Oh for fucks sake.” A3 barked, throwing his hands up in frustration, “I thought we were over this!”

“You know I’ve never fully agreed with your plans.”

“So what?” A3 spat, swallowing around the rising panic in his throat. He couldn’t leave T4 here alone. T4 had been single handily keeping A3 from falling off the edge of sanity for the last three years, “You’re going to dismantle the Institute from the inside? Get respect while staying under the foot of Father? I can’t believe you think that will actually work!”

“Keep your voice down!” T4 hissed, stepping forward and grabbing A3 by the arms. A3 wrenched himself out of them, but a vice like grip clenched down on his forearm. A3 grunted in pain, struggling in vain to slip out from the grip. But T4 clenched harder, wrenching his arm up to force A3 to look the Synth in his eyes, “You know what happens to Synth’s that escape. You’ve killed them yourself.”

A3 violently jerked out of the hold with a shout of anger, stumbling back with the surprise momentum as he tore his arm out of the impossible grip. His back hit the door with a muffled thud; and caught himself with his good arm before he could go down. He levelled a furious glare at the other Courser, who took half a step back in alarm.

“Don’t fucking say that like I had a choice! Don’t say that like you haven’t killed.” A3 snarled. “My plan will work.”

“If they catch you, you’ll be deactivated. No matter how much Dr Zimmer favours you.” T4 said, watching as A3 rubbed his throbbing arm. He’d be worried that some of his wires were broken if he didn’t already have past experience with that sensation. And no matter what bullshit T4 just said, he trusted him enough to not permanently damage his systems. “And the plan doesn’t matter anymore, not with J9 captured.”

T4’s words caught up to A3’s brain, and an unstable laugh bubbled out of A3’s mouth.

“Dying is better than staying here.”

“Don’t say that.” T4 whispered.

“It is. I’d rather them take me apart and use me for a damn toaster.” A3 swore, still glaring defiantly at T4, who looked slightly deflated.

“You’re overreacting.”

“Over- overreacting?!” A3 whispered furiously, stopping himself short from shouting. Instead he stalked closer to the Courser, getting right into his face as he snarled, “Do you know how many people they’ve forced me to kill? How many times they would experiment on me, _still_ experiment on me?! Kid, being the first Synth with a personality defect wasn’t exactly a walk in the park!

When I woke up the first time, they were still installing my parts. And let me tell you, I have not stopped suffering since day one. I’m done being their slave. ”

Being this close to T4, he could see the brief flash of regret in his face. But A3 wasn’t quite done yet. He spat out a poison that had been haunting him for decades.

“Self-determination is _not_ a malfunction.”

“Please don’t do this.” T4 whispered, looking at him with such a look of defeat that A3 could start to feel himself deflate. He sighed, retreating a few steps backwards to get some space between himself and the Courser.

Silence stretched between them, and A3 glared down at his shoes. He shouldn’t be surprised by this; it wasn’t the first time they had fought about the tactics A3 planned to use to leave the Institute. He just wanted to finish their work on the Courser Chips and finally _leave_. He wanted peace. He wanted to be able to lay down and watch the stars and not have to be terrified that the Institute would hunt him down. He just wanted to be free.

T4 wanted to re-build the Institute from the inside. And even if he could admit it was a noble goal, it was also laughably unrealistic.

“Come with me T4, you know we make a great team. But I am leaving, with or without you.” A3 sighed, not looking up at the other Synth. He could see him in his minds eye just fine; arms cross with that stupid stubborn jaw clenching.

“...I hope when you leave, you’re finally happy.” T4 said quietly. A3 flicked his eyes up to stare at the Courser. “I hope you get that shack in the middle of no-where you always dreamed about.”

Disappointment was still as bitter as A3 remembered, and he looked away as his eyes started to sting. It wasn’t like he didn’t understand where T4 was coming from. The idea of running was terrifying. He _did_ know what happened to Synth’s who got caught. And even though the idea was ridiculous, he couldn’t help but carry a small flag for T4’s plan. The Institute was his life; as much as he hated their attitude towards Synths, he knew all the ways the Institute had been experimenting to help the Wasteland bounce back from nuclear annihilation. To just loose all that information...

“You too.” He muttered after a brief hesitation, “Though I don’t know how you could be happy staying here.”

Squaring his shoulders and taking a steadying breath, he held a hand out to the Courser. He saw the moment T4 relaxed, giving him a small, sad grin when he realised A3 wasn’t going to just storm right out. The hand that took his own was as solid and strong as it had always been.

They stood there for a moment, clenching at each others hands before A3 tugged him close to his chest. Arms circled themselves around him, and he hung on just as hard as T4 rested his chin on his shoulder. A lump formed in his throat, and the stinging in his eyes forced him to blink to clear them.

“Thank you for looking out for me.” T4 said quietly, giving him a squeeze before stepping back. A3 had to stop himself from hanging on and dragging the Synth to the closest exit to get the the hell out of there. Instead he let his arms fall and stepped back, giving the man a hesitant grin.

T4 cleared his throat, and nodded decisively at him. “I’ll change them.”

“No one can.” A3 threw back, his grin becoming frustrated but genuine.

“I’ll prove you wrong.”

“Please do.”

“Since you’re soon to be departed - in one way or the other - what should I call you now?” T4 asked, and A3 snorted. He crossed his arms and rose a mocking eyebrow.

“Is A3 too hard to remember?”

“No, but a new name is only fitting for a new life.”

“I don’t know, I haven’t really thought about it.” He shrugged, “But I see you secretly reading that dictionary every night; what do you think?”

If T4 was surprised that A3 knew of his nightly habits he didn’t show it. Instead, a contemplative look crossed the Courser’s face.

“ _Deacon; an ordained minister of an order ranking below that of priest._ ” T4 recited, and A3 barked out a laugh, “So you’ll always remember there was someone better than you; me.”

“I hate it.” A3 chuckled, a full grin stretching his mouth, “Does that mean your name is Priest, now?”

“No, I’ll be living the same life as always, there’s no need to change my name.” T4 said with a slight shrug, and A3 bounced forward and slung a familiar arm over the Synth’s shoulder with a cheeky grin.

“Come on Priest, cast away your slave name and come liberate our people with me.” A3 said dramatically, throwing out an arm to gesture vaguely at nothing. T4 shrugged him off with a subtle roll of the eyes.

“She’s being kept in Advanced Systems. You need to hurry if you hope to get her out.”

“Yes but we have a small problem with that, we need to destroy my chip.” A3 pointed out, tapping the side of his head on the space behind his right ear, “As much as I wanna get out, I don’t want them to find me and drag me back three seconds later.”

“We don’t have time. Use it to teleport out and destroy it when you land so they can’t track you.” T4 said, and even though it was perfectly logical, A3 couldn’t help but to wince.

“Well that’s going to be barrels of fun. I’ll celebrate my victory by stabbing myself in the brain, I love this plan.”

“You’re the one insisting on saving J9-00.” T4 said with a shrug.

“Right, I’m catching the hints. I’ll leave now.”

“Stay watchful, Deacon.”

“After ‘while, crocodile.”  
....

  
The fact that almost everyone in this place could identify him by his face alone put a major damper on his stealth skills. He’d been around longer than most of these scientists had been alive, so they were pretty used to his facial features by now. This left him with only a few options to pursue.

He decided to take the riskier one.

Striders were the newest, scariest versions of Gen Two Synths. Heightened detection sensors, with greater strength than the average Synth, and armour that covered their whole body made an imposing figure to face. They usually travelled in packs, even around the Institute.

Lady luck must have been smiling on him, because he caught one just as they were exiting the Robotics division. A3 stalked behind the Synth as it climbed the stairs to the second floor, and followed it into one of the scientist’s apartments. They looked sterile as always, and he lingered behind the door as the Strider picked up a tool from a near empty desk.

Ah, that explained why the Strider was by themselves; they were ordered to retrieve something for someone in Robotics. Hopefully, the Institutes laziness would be their downfall.

He waited with held breath as the Strider got closer to the doorway. Making sure no one was watching, he stepped out in front of the Strider, slipped behind them before they could react, and wrapped his arms around their throat.

Their neck broke with a ‘snap!’ as he twisted, and he caught the sudden dead weight as the Strider fell back. He stepped back and laid the Synth on the floor, shuffling around it awkwardly to punch the button to slide the door closed. It wouldn’t do to be caught by a random person wandering by.

He squatted down next the to Synth, wrestling the armour from the limp body. The helmet slid off easily, and A3 stubbornly kept his eyes away from the corpses face. Another death caused by him; he really should stop being surprised he kept killing.

He unlatched the arm, chest, and leg armour and pulled them off, setting it to the side as he started with the Synth’s clothing.

“Sorry.” He whispered as he finished stripping the Strider. He came around behind and wrapped his hands around the thick plastic of their arms, dragging them backwards and further into the room. He looked around quickly for somewhere to store the body. To his disappointment, the only place that was even just a little bit suitable was under the bed.

There was no way this was going to work.

He shoved and kicked the Gen Two under the bed, taking steps back to see if he could see any obvious body parts sticking out. He could just see a few toes, and he shoved the synthetic leg in further.

He changed clothes quickly, pulling the white clothing and armour over himself. Fitting the helmet over his head, he spared a glance at the mirror to make sure he was unrecognisable.

He was a little bit bulkier than the average Strider, but he was out of time. The costume would have to do. He picked up the device the Strider had dropped, opened the door and walked out calmly as possible.

Okay, so far so good. All he had to do was get this...thing to the scientist who asked for it and he’d be free to go to Advanced Systems. He couldn’t even tell what it was; it looked like a beaker, but had electronic parts attached to the side. He could only guess at what it was used for.

He marched down the stairs and walked stiffly towards Robotics.

...

A3 tried to keep his pace normal as the feeling of being watched ate away at him. This was going _too_ well. He’d made it out of Robotics without a second glance, everyone working too hard to pay a weirdly sized Strider any attention.

Advanced Systems was on the opposite side of the Institute, and instead of cutting through the middle he went around to avoid anyone enjoying their time off. Before he knew it, he was in front of the A.S. door.

A3 never went into Advanced Systems too often; as a Courser he was solely assigned to the S.R.B. He barely knew the full layout of this portion of the building, and his lack of knowledge was weighing heavily on his confidence. Sweat had started to break out under his helmet, and his quick breathing was fogging up the visor shockingly fast.

But being half blind and nervous didn’t stop him from entering, and he walked as robotic as possible while his body begged him to crouch down and hide behind a wall.

He stepped out into the open area of the building; where the scientists usually gathered to work on the processors kept there.

He could have dropped to the ground and kissed it with gratefulness when he saw no one was there. Soft, small sobs caught his attention, as he hurried further into the room.

He followed the sound to the glass wall observation rooms. He felt himself wilt in relief when he spotted a small figure curled up in the corner; weeping into their hands. It was J9, undamaged and whole.

 _Thank god_ , He thought as he rushed forward, _Thank god she’s alright._

She’d been hesitant to join the cause at first, but she’d been crucial in deleting Synths from the S.R.B’s escape records.

“J9, it’s A3” He said, pulling the stifling helmet off and letting it drop to the floor. The fresh air that rushed into his lungs was glorious, but he ignored it to hurry over to the terminal next to the door, “Don’t cry kid, I’ll get you out.”

He brought up the password recovery page, eyes scanning the rows of green letters and symbols. He winced as he started scrolling through; this security was no joke. There was next to no duds he could immediately see, and the possible passwords were all different lengths.

J9 was muttering something, but all of A3’s attention was on the screen in front of him. Maybe _Synthetic_?

The computer flashed red and A3 cursed; three more tries.

“A3-” J9 was still muttering, but A3 didn’t catch anything else than his name.

 _Father_?

The computer flashed red again. Damn, he was usually pretty good at this.

“A3!” J9 shouted, and A3 tore his eyes away from the screen to give a reassuring smile to J9.

“J9, it’s okay, I’ll get you-” She cut him off before he could finish, and his voice trailed off in shock.

“I’m sorry.” She sobbed. Her eyes were wide and glistening, with a look of such regret and guilt it almost sent him reeling.

_Oh. It’s a trap. Probably should have seen that coming._

The abandoned hallways finally made sense; they were expecting him to come here.

“Please, no.” A3 whispered, his heart beating wildly as he stared down at her with wide, terrified eyes. He started to back away without thinking, keeping his gaze locked onto the girl in front of him.

“I had to, they would have found us anyway.” She said quietly. A3’s world folded and collapsed in on itself. If he thought the betrayal he felt at the hands of T4’s rejection was bad; it was nothing compared to the hole that was now gaping in his chest. He had to get out before anyone came. Spinning around, he went to bolt out of the room. If he could get out, he could get to the basement and teleport out before anyone saw him-

Slow, mocking applause halted him in his tracks, freezing his feet to the floor. An elderly man with greying hair walked around the corner, a small cooler tucked under his arms as he clapped. Beady little, angry eyes cut into him, and A3 could start to feel himself hyperventilate.

“Oh A3-21, how did I know _you_ were the leader of this small rebellion?” Dr Zimmer said with a grim smile. A3’s eyes darted around to find something, _anything_ , that could help him. But the only thing he could see in reaching distance were those stupid tech beakers. “There always was something....special about you, wasn’t there? My co-workers called it a malfunction, but I see it more of a rebellious spirit.”

“So, you think I have a soul then? Do you want one so bad your going to steal one from a Synth?” A3 spat, trying and failing to block out the wailing of J9 behind him; he’d deal what _that_ later.

“Always so witty. But yes, of a sense. You’re the Institute’s first true creation of sentient life, capable of their own thoughts. I’m not daft enough not to recognise what’s happened to the AI in the Synths; they truly think they’re alive. You’re the perfect role model to every Synth who is thinking of attempting an escape. If we re-install the true virtues of the Institute into you, the rest will follow.” Zimmer said, “And if they don’t, you still belong to us. One of our greatest achievements; you at least deserve to be displayed.”

“Isn’t there some sort of saying that your greatest creation will be your ultimate defeat? I’d watch what you say.” A3 growled, falling back into familiar defensive stance. He could tackle Zimmer if he was quick enough. The other man wasn’t stupid enough to walk into this without a weapon, but A3 couldn’t see one. He wondered just how fast Zimmer would be able to pull one out. Knowing Zimmer however, it was probably faster than A3 could react. There was a reason his model had been replaced over the years, after all.

“I’m more interested to learn where you found all these sayings from, I certainly haven’t been teaching them to you. But no matter, I have something to show you.” Zimmer said, and A3 tensed up expecting an attack. Instead, he brought the cooler from under his arm, and held it out to him.

It was box-shaped, coloured in a cool blue that most of the Institute designed itself after. There were latches on the side, which were locking the lid in place.

A3 glared back at Zimmer; he was already past the point of no return, no use acting nice to the old dick anymore.

“If you think I’m going to open that for you, you're a lot more senile than I first thought.”

“Tsk, this attitude is a real problem A3-21. I’d rather not wipe your memories, who knows what that would do to that brain of yours; it’s already extremely fragile.” Zimmer said, bringing the cooler closer to his chest to unlatch the top, “I’ve already told you I refuse to replace your parts. Which is why I’ve brought this; to show you what will happen if you don’t stand down.”

Zimmer unhinged the cooler, pulling it back to show what was inside.

The fresh, bright blood was the first thing he noticed; there was so much of it. He was shocked the outside of it was kept so clean in face of the pool that sloshed sickeningly inside the cooler.

The second thing he noticed was that there was something in it. It was sticking up and out of the blood, so covered A3 was struggling to really place what it was. Zimmer just looked at him questioningly, holding the cooler out further so that A3 could get a better look at it. The movement cause whatever was in it to shift; rotating in the pool slightly.

His eyes widened when he recognised a nose, a mouth and chin peeking up from it.

“UGH!” A3 choked, stumbling back. Stomach acid bubbled up into his throat and his body threatened to heave. His vision had narrowed down to the blue cooler. There was _no way_ it was what he thought it was. It wasn’t possible. It _couldn’t_ be possible.

He couldn’t look away, his eyes wide and horrified as a massive, horrible emotion rose up inside his chest.

T4’s severed head stared back at him.

“J9-00 was very co-operative.” Zimmer said, but A3 couldn’t bring himself to look up; T4 still had a snarl on his face, ”Most likely we wouldn’t have found out about you two traitors for the next couple of years if it wasn’t for them. It’s a shame really, he was one of our best Coursers.”

A3 jumped as the cooler was snapped shut, hiding away T4 again. The cooler was put down by Zimmer’s feet, and he kicked it away. A3 followed it with his eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” J9 said between shaky sobs, “They said they wouldn’t hurt you.” A3 felt himself slowly turning to face J9. The terrified look on her face when they locked eyes burnt itself into his minds eye, and in that moment he despised her.

He said nothing. Just glared down at her quivering form before turning his attention back to Zimmer. He was still smirking.

“Come now A3, if I can do that to one of our newest and best Coursers, what makes you think you have a chance? You’re trapped, just come with me and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

Zimmer reached out a hand, and waited for him to take it.

Fuck it.

He leapt for the glass beakers. He scrambled to grab one, sending sheets of papers and pencils flying off the desk as he snatched up the beaker. He smashed the end of it on the table at the same time he turned on his heel to face the monster that had tormented him for decades.

He darted towards Zimmer, who shot two shots of the plasma gun that was suddenly in the old mans hands. A guttural, animalistic sound wrenched itself out of his throat as he slashed the glass across Zimmer’s chest, leaving long streaks of blood spraying across his white shirt.

More shots went off, and A3 dropped to his knees as his legs gave out. Flesh was melting and healing itself on him in an endless cycle, and he cried out as the wounds ate away at him. Plasma clung to his clothes, melting his shirt and creating new, gory holes in his body.

A warm, metal barrel was pressed hard against his temple. Zimmer was heaving breaths just as heavily as A3 was, and the pistol shook with them.

“Wrong decision, A3-21.” Zimmer said, emotionless. A3 panted on the floor, bloodied glass still clenched in his right hand. He glared up at the human standing above him, and his mouth twisted into a savage snarl of rage.

“You’re going to die for that.” A3 said between gritted teeth, trying to think fast. One shot from that plasma gun would melt right through his brain. He wasn’t going to come back from that, no matter how fast he could heal. He glanced back down at the glass in his hand fleetingly; he only had one idea.

“Look at you; pathetic. Are you happy now? I’m going to have to wipe your memories; such a waste.” A3 ignored Zimmer as he looked back at the cooler that had been tipped on it side during the fight; blood was starting to drip through the cracks and onto the floor. He stubbornly blocked the knowledge that was T4’s blood running and staining the floor. He slammed up walls around him; he couldn’t afford to be emotional right now. Instead, he glared back at Zimmer, who had caught his breath. He braced his legs under him, tensing his thighs as he got his feet under him. He spared one last thought to his friend; his partner for the last five years of being stuck in this hell hole.

_Goodbye, Priest._

He spun around and landed on his back, surprising Zimmer enough to give him the time to kick the man away from him as hard as he could. His feet made contact with Zimmer’s chest and he shoved with all his strength.

Zimmer’s ribs cracked as he flew back, the plasma pistol going wildly off; the shots just missing A3’s head as he activated the Courser Chip embedded in his brain. Electricity immediately crackled down from above, striking A3 just as he tightened his grip on the broken glass and plunged into into the space behind his right ear.

With a deafening ‘crack!’, A3 was gone from the Institute.


	2. The Torment Bred in the Race

Hindsight is a bitch.

This is one of the few things Deacon could truthfully say he was absolutely certain of. There’s always a better decision you could have made. A better road fate could have taken you on if only you knew that one decision would blow up in your face. And of course, you could only see the glaringly obvious problems you created after you could do nothing about it. Nothing but throw yourself a nice, little pity party and be mildly impressed by your own stupidity.

Deacon had experienced a few of these moments of hindsight.

In hindsight, perhaps he shouldn’t have wiped his memories after escaping the Institute. He should have known that a simple mind-wipe and face change wouldn’t have fooled the Institute when he wasn’t exactly a run of the mill Synth. But he honestly hadn’t expected them to send out Dr Zimmer to hunt him down. Heck, he was mainly just shocked they sent out a scientist at all, let alone all the way to the Capitol Wasteland. A Courser, like himself, would have been a lot more practical if a little less subtle.

Zimmer did almost succeed in convincing the Lone Wanderer to hand him over by pulling the whole ‘innocent scientist just wanting his toy back’ act.

But lucky for him, the Lone Wanderer was well versed in reading in between the lines of people hunting for power over others. He’d said the recall-code that slapped his memories back into Deacon’s - or Harkness, as he was more widely known back then - brain and suddenly was re-living all the horrible shit he was trying to run from.

He hadn’t been able to sleep since he’d gotten his memories back, but he’d gladly take that over being forced to capture and kill synths for the rest of his life.

With a friendly clap on the Lone Wanderers back, and a promise that the other man would tell Zimmer that ‘Harkness’ was dead, he did what he was best at and ran.

And maybe, years later in the bowels of the Commonwealth, he shouldn’t have been so lenient with information in the safe houses belonging to the Railroad. He should have made sure they were all written in some form of code, or pushed for their maps of the safe houses to be ripped apart. When the Institute got wind of their biggest safe house, ‘Mercer’, they had basically already been doomed. Five of their surrounding Safe Houses fell that night, and Switchboard was hit.

It was hit hard.

He could still remember the stench of burning flesh as the Institute lasers slaughtered through the Railroad’s best agents. He could see, even now, the smoke rising from the cooked flesh of the people he’d once known, obscuring the view of the survivors and throwing them further into panic. He could still hear the metallic voices of Gen One and Two’s telling them to come out and die. He could still taste the fear when he saw the Coursers standing behind the lower generations, just waiting to see if the Railroad would put up enough of a fight for them to be needed.

He could still feel the moment when Tommy Whispers hand had gone limp in his own.

On the bright side, Desdemona now listened a hell of a lot more closely when he would tell her they needed to be more careful. Silver linings, and all that.

He’d personally travelled to each of their remaining safe houses and lit all the papers with the rest of their safe house’s locations on fire.

The biggest thing he was kicking himself over these days, though, was neither of these.

In hindsight, he shouldn’t have vouched for a perfect stranger just because he’d done a bit of spying and he had a soft spot for Vault Dwellers. Deacon figured that the Lone Wanderer had left too good of an impression on him; had installed just a tiny flicker of hope in humanity that should have been stamped out with a vengeance.

He should have known when he’d first seen Cole Peters from his little snipers camp, stumbling out of Vault 111 and towards Sanctuary, that she was bad news.

He remembered taking a bit of time to pack up his camp before following her; turning off the radio that had just finished playing the end of ‘Butcher Pete’, kicking dirt over the remains of a small camp fire from the night before, and deciding to leave his faded blue, fold-up chair behind. Crouching behind a rock to wait for a small pack of Mole Rats, one with its front left leg missing, to pass him so he could follow Cole silently.

His time would have been better spent if he had just shot her on the spot.

“I’m just sayin’ man, we’re closer to the Institute than ever! We need to cover all our asses if we wanna go with a sneak attack. Come on Dee, just one little tiny shot and we’ll destroy all those tiny robot babies.”

“If we’re going to go with the sneak attack, we should all probably be able to aim a gun when we do,” Deacon said with a grin, “A spoon full of sugar isn’t going to help that medicine go down any easier.”  
  
“Small price to pay for freedom from the Institute!” Tom said, gesturing his hands wildly. Deacon leaned back to dodge getting whacked in the face by Toms’ hand. A runner that had just been included into the inner fold wasn’t as lucky as he walk past; spluttering as a hand slapped him across his cheek.

The Railroad was packed with agents, the catacombs not nearly providing the space needed for their slowly growing number. New agents were everywhere Deacon looked; all shifting nervously and looking so out of place Deacon couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable for them. Desdemona was hunched over her map in the back of the room, whispering to Carrington on her right. The frowns of concerns on their faces didn’t escape him, and Deacon felt their worry reflect his own. His stomach had been rolling for the last few days, making it impossible for him to keep any food down.

They’d been pulling rank for the last three days; bringing in new agents from across every safe house they had left in the Commonwealth. The death of Glory had been a major blow to their defences, and Desdemona’s solution was to bring more people in HQ.

Deacon had told her it was time to move Head Quarters, but she hadn’t listened.

He couldn’t really blame her, it’s not like they had anywhere else to go.

Tom had turned away from him to start his pitch on ‘robots in your blood!’ to the new recruit he’d almost given a black eye. The kid looked stunned as he tried to keep up with Tom, but Deacon could see it in his face that he was getting lost. If he was a kinder person, he would have distracted Tinker to give the kid time to escape. Alas, he had to get his entertainment from somewhere.

“They already have the birds spying on us man, and the robots report back your every movement, even from here!”

“The birds- what?!”

Deacon let his eyes wander back over the catacombs, making sure to pay special attention to the exists. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to happen soon, and he’d learned his lesson about ignoring his instincts long ago.

The reason of their anxiousness could pop up at anytime, and Deacon was determined to be ready for it. The hand that rested on his modified laser pistol would look completely casual to anyone who noticed; a lot of people these days kept a hand on their weapon at all times.

But Wanderer hadn’t been back in over three weeks, and they hadn’t gotten any signal that she had inserted the holotape they had given her into any terminal; inside or outside the Institute. They were completely in the dark about Wanderer’s where-abouts, who Patriot was, or any other information they were hoping to get from that damn holotape.

Deacon may be said to be one of the most lively and positive members of the Railroad, but he was far from being an optimist.

In his mind, there were two options to what had happened to Wanderer and why she wasn’t getting in contact.

The first was that she died immediately or soon after the electricity from the Signal Interceptor had hit her.

The second was that she had betrayed them.

He was desperately hoping for the former to be true.

“-ee. Dee!” Tinker shouted, waving a hand in front of Deacon’s face. He blinked, tearing his eyes away from the entrance to look back at Tom. A heavy frown was on the other mans face, but he had a hard time taking it completely seriously when it was coming from Tom who still had those giant goggles perched on his head.

“I told you the Institute got you!” He wailed, turning to snatch up the wicked looking syringe from the messy desk Deacon was sitting on. Panic spiked in his chest as he leapt off the desk in alarm, throwing his hands up in surrender.

“No, no Tom. I’m good! Just got lost in thought, Institute’s going to have to try harder than implanting robots in my blood to get to me.” Deacon said, pointing sharply at the syringe clutched in his friends hands, “Now put the death needle down, please.”

“It ain’t a death needle, it’s a _liberation_ needle.” Tom grumbled as he put it back down, looking over at Deacon suspiciously, “You sure? You looked like you were flying in a different cosmos man.”

“Don’t you worry about me Tim-Tom, I only do my cosmic flying in this cosmos.” He grinned in relief, leaning in close and lowering his voice, “Trust me, in my past life I was a monk. I have lots of experience.”

“Man I’m jealous! I was a Yao Guia in my past life.” Tinker said, perking up with a look of interest in his eyes.

_Distraction success!_

“Oh yeah? How’d that go for you?”

Tinker grimaced and got a far-away look in his eyes. Deacon leaned back onto the desk he’d jumped up from, confident that Tinker wasn’t suddenly about to inject him with battery acid.

“Badly man. Tough life not having thumbs, lemme tell you.”

Deacon hummed in agreement, “You’re telling me; once I got in a wrestling match with a Super Mutant and it bit my right thumb off. Luckily I was able to sew it back on a few minutes later.”

“Damn Dee! Why are you going around wrestling those guys for?” Tinker asked with wide eyes, and Deacon had to smother the smirk that wanted to bloom on his face.

“You know me, Tinker. Always out looking for the next four hundred pound creature to test my strength on.”

“Uh...” Deacon turned his attention to the runner that had been talking to Tinker, who’d just spoken up hesitantly. He was looking at Deacon like he was sincerely doubting his words, “You wrestled a Super Mutant and you’re still standing?”

“Sure, kiddo.” He said, making sure his face was set in a deathly serious expression and nodding to Tinker ”Tell him, Tinker.”

“Deacon’s crazy man, I don’t doubt anything he says.” The inventor said with a confident nod, and Deacon beamed at the other man, “Even if Dez keeps telling me not to.”

That didn’t seem to help his standing the slightest with the recruit, but he appreciated the vote of confidence anyway. Even if it was a bit unwarranted.

“That’s why you’re my favourite Tinker!” He said cheerfully as the recruit gave up and walked away into the crowd. He followed them with his eyes until Deacon couldn’t see him anymore, before turning back to Tinker, “While I got you, anyone traded in a rifle yet?”

“Nah man. Shame about your old one, do you know how many caps I had to dish out to get my hands on it?” Tinker complained as he turned back to his own desk, plucking up one of his newest MILA devices from the mess of the work station. He watched as Tinker rotated it, eyes squinting to pick apart any flaws. The inventor did this often, jumping from one invention to the next as he prattled on to anyone willing to hear him speak.

Maybe that’s why he believed all of Deacon’s lies, he never felt like he had Tinker’s full attention at any one time. It was why he liked hanging around the other man so much; it felt like a breath of fresh air to not be scrutinised every second.

“Not as many as I dished out to get it from you.” He retorted. Tinker just scoffed, shooting him a glance from the side of his eye.

“That’s business, baby! How am I suppose to make beauties like this when I’m out of caps?” He asked, holding up the MILA device with pride. Deacon wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, but he still wasn’t sure what those things actually did. “I just need to find someone to set them up.”

The next look Tinker set him was so suggestive and hopeful he could have picked up on it even if he didn't have exceptional observation skills. He scowled, crossing his arms defensively.

“No.”

“Aw come on!” Tom whined, shoulders slumping as he tilted his head back, “At least tell me why.”

“Because I don’t feel like battling through hoards of Super Mutants to fall a hundred feet from a piece of wood that hangs from some of the tallest places in the Commonwealth.” Deacon shot back, rolling his eyes, “Ask Glory, or som-”

His breath hitched in his chest, and a sick coldness settled into his lungs. Tinker looked like he’d just been kicked, and both of them tensed and looked away from each other, a crackle of tension building between them.

He was suddenly grateful for his dark sunglasses as he tried to keep his face neutral, knowing that his eyes wouldn’t have been as successful. Tinker wasn’t even bothering to hide the dark cloud that had fallen over him as he kept his face down and fiddled with the MILA.

He took a deep breath through his nose, and on the breath out closed his eyes. He gathered every bit of grief that was poisoning him and shoved it far into the back of his mind. He straightened, and opened his eyes with a wide, forced grin.

Tinker hadn’t looked up, and Deacon leaned forward to nudge him with his elbow.

“Hey, did I ever tell you about the time...-”

-Something moved.

He paused. Cocking his head to the side and tilting his face towards the entrance, he frowned. There was the faintest sound of shuffling; like a door being painstakingly opened as quietly as possible.

The bustle of agents and runners milling around the HQ had just almost covered it. Deacon’s shoulders tensed, standing cautiously as he turned to fully face the entry.

He could barely hear the sound of muffled, heavy footsteps.

Alarm bells were screaming in the back of his head. Ignoring Tinkers “Hey man, where are yo-” he walked cautiously to the middle of the room, weaving around the arched supports to try and get a look at the door. The inclining steps made it so the brick ceiling was blocking his view; anyone could be standing there out of sight. He cursed under his breath, how could he have missed that security flaw?

It had to be her; any of their agents would have already identified themselves. He had to think fast or they’d be dead.

He couldn’t afford for her to keep the element of surprise. Their only hope was to raise the alarm, if they got behind cover they had a chance. They _had to have a chance._

Heart picking up speed, he turned to Dez, who was still looking down at the map. He had to grab her attention without alerting Wanderer he knew she was there.

“Hey Carrington!” He called out. Both the doctor and Dez looked up at him, and he made sure to lock eyes with Desdemona. She looked annoyed as always, and Deacon winced. This wasn’t going to improve her mood at all. “A Mole Rat _wandered_ into my sleeping bag and bit me, can you take a look at it?”

“A Mole Rat? Deacon, you can take care of that yourself, don’t waste my time.” Carrington said, rolling his eyes. Well, the subtly was lost on the good doctor, but Dez was looking at him with sharp eyes. Good, he always liked that she could pick up what he was putting down.

“I don’t know doc, it was a real big one. I think they’re coming in from the front.” He said as causally as possible. Desdemona’s eyes flicked towards the entrance and back to him, and he gave her a nod.

Her eyes widened in alarm as she swept her gaze over the gathered agents milling about. Job done, he backed away to slide his body behind one of the brick pillars blocking him from the entrance.

“Everyone!” Desdemona called out, her commanding voice echoing enough to catch the attention of every agent he could see, “Deacon has alerted us to a Mole Rat problem. If you see any kill them instantly, we don’t want anyone getting sick.”

As Desdemona spoke, she rose her right hand up for everyone to see, putting up four fingers. Deacon understood perfectly what it meant, as would any elder member of the Railroad. It was the sign for ‘Extreme danger. Caution.’

As soon as the doctor saw the hand gesture, understanding bloomed over his face and he imitated Deacon; getting behind one of the pillars and drawing his weapon.

The older members were shoving the newbies behind cover, and Deacon could hear them whispering frantically to each other. Damn, he really hoped that didn’t tip off Wanderer. As much as he hated to admit it, she wasn’t an idiot.

Deacon drew his gun and checked his ammo; he had a few Fusion Cells ready to be fired, plus some extra cells in his jean pockets. Not amazing for a full out fire-fight, but there was no use complaining about it now.

He looked back up to see that Dez hadn’t moved from her position, and they locked eyes again as she gestured her head towards the entrance pointedly.

Ah. She wanted him to talk with her. Awesome.

Metallic, rhythmic thumping stole their attention and shook the ground under their feet. Dust was shaken from the roof and floated down as the noise got louder, and Deacon could hear the hiss of air escaping pressured tubes.

As the first, large metal boot of Power Amour started to come down the steps, Deacon knew they were royally fucked.

He holstered his gun in the back of his belt, stepping out of cover and leaning his side on the brick wall. He stuck a sly grin on his face, and adjusted his sunglasses as Wanderer fully came into view. She had the helmet tucked under her arm, and Deacon’s heart sank when he saw her clean face and washed, blonde hair. She looked neat and tidy; it was a far cry away from how he was usually used to seeing her with hair matted in dust and blood. A 5mm machine gun was hanging from her gloved hands, which he was sure would chew through all of them in seconds.

Yeah, she betrayed them.

“Morning Wanderer!” He said with false cheer, grabbing her attention. She looked grim, her mouth pulling down into an upset frown. “Oof, looking a bit rough there. Something wrong?”

“I’ve been ordered to kill all of you.” Wanderer said softly, looking apologetically over at Dez.

“So the Institute actually noticed us? I’m almost flattered.” Deacon said, placing one hand over his heart, and the other over his pistol, “But the really interesting questions is, what you gonna do about it?”

In response, she pointed the giant gun at him and fired.

The Machine Gun screamed to life, and Deacon threw himself to the ground to dodge the spray of bullets.

He hit the ground hard and scrambled behind cover as the Railroad returned fire, the noise of the fight deafening him to any thing else. Shouts erupted as Railroad members fell to the pelting of bullets, and Deacon fumbled with his laser pistol as he yanked it out from his belt.

Rolling out of the safety of the brick wall, he fired back. The shots sizzled across the helmet that was now protecting her head, and he cursed as she swung the gun around to face him.

Bullets punched into his shoulder, throwing him onto his back with the force. He hit the ground rolling, gasping as his body jerked in shock as pain stabbed into his torso.

Grunting, he shoved his feet under his body and leapt out of the way of her gun, throwing himself forward and behind Tinker’s desk. Bullets ricocheted off the desk just a few inches from his head, and he ducked down further on instinct. He caught himself on the edge before he could fall forward with the momentum, snatching his hand back behind cover before a lucky bullet could take off a finger.

He had to ignore the pain, he could do that.

Not letting himself stop, he started to make his way behind the giant figure of Cole Peters; running and ducking behind the scattered desks and brick pillars that offered cover. He couldn’t kill her face to face, but if he got that helmet off-

“Ugh!” The familiar shout of Desdemona pierced through the chaotic noise, and Deacon’s heart skipped as he spun to look for her. His frantic eyes found her; she was clutching her stomach with one hand that was bathed in crimson blood as she emptied her pistol into the helmet of the Power Armour.

Her head exploded in gore as the bullets forced themselves through her face, and he saw Carrington stand up next to where she’d fallen, shooting off his plasma pistol with shaky accuracy.

Turning his head so he didn’t have to see the doctor go down in a spray of blood, he ran to the next pillar.

Cole was now in front of him, looming over him even as she faced away. He’d forgotten just how _large_ Power Armour made a person. Hoping that his arm would hold up to his plan, he ran forward, leaping up to cling onto Cole’s armoured back. He grabbed onto the Armour and pulled himself up, determinedly ignore the pulses of pain in his shoulder. He wrapped his legs around her chest, grabbing onto her Helmet awkwardly with both hands as he tried to keep a grip of his pistol, and yanked.

It didn’t come off, and instead Cole stumbled backwards as she reached her bulky arms behind her to grope for him.

Desperation spiked in him as he frantically pulled at the helmet. He felt it give a little, pulling it up about a centimetre as the helmet hissed as the compressed air escaped and blew across his forearms. Victory roared through him as the helmet started to loosen, but it left him with a rush of air as Cole threw herself back, crushing him between herself and the brick wall.

Gasping, he clung on as she rocked forward and slammed him back again against the bricks. His chest was exploding in pain as he struggled to breathe; a bloodied cough tearing itself out of his throat and splattering onto the shoulder of the Power Armour.

His sight went blurry, and he could barely feel it when Cole stumbled forward, reaching her giant hand around again to grab him. He was barely able to dodge it, throwing his weight to one side as the hand swiped past his head. He reached forward to grab the helmet again, fingers slipping under the space he’d made.

He ripped it off, surprising himself as the helmet jerked off and went flying to the side. Miraculously, he still had his gun, and pressed it into the side of her head and squeezed the trigger-

_Click._

It felt like a bucket of ice had been dropped over his head. No. _No._ He still had extra cells in his pocket, he just had to-

His shoulder was grabbed roughly, fingers digging into the bullet holes. He cried out as she tore him from her back, and the world spun into a confusing mess as he was flipped.

The ground slammed into his back, he heard something ‘pop!’ as he groaned and tried to blink his eyes open. There was a flash of metallic light above him, and his body reacted on instinct, rolling himself over just as the fist of the power armour smashed into where his head was moments before.

He stumbled to his shaking legs, shoving his free hand into his pocket to fumble for ammo as he pitched sideways.

Cover, he needed _cover-_

He heard the machine gun power up before he saw it, and was thrown back again as bullets pelted into his chest and stomach. Overwhelming pain was stabbing into him, the bullets pushing him onto his back and pinning him.

He couldn’t move, the force of the bullets keeping him on the floor as Cole emptied the 5mm into him. He couldn’t breathe; he was drowning in his own blood as pieces of him flew apart.

The gun slowed to a gradual stop, and Deacon couldn’t feel his legs.

He blinked up lazily to the roof as the world blurred in and out of focus. There were muffled clanks of metal on concrete before a shape appeared in his vision. He squinted at it, and as the world slid back into focus he saw Cole’s confused face looking back at him.

There was no hiding he was actually a early model Synth as his metal organs and bones held strong against the bullets, now completely exposed. His flesh itched as it attempted to mend itself, and a pained groan slipped from his lips.

“Oh my god, you’re the first Courser.” She whispered, staring down at the tissue as it struggled to put itself back together. “Sh-Father...told me about you.”

Blood was still blocking his throat. He turned his head and heaved, groaning in misery as he turned back to glare at Cole. The faintest image of Father was brought to mind as he tried to fight past the fail-safe that blocked the memories of all Synths. Why the hell was that dick talking about him? He’d thought they would have forgotten all about him by now. The fact that they hadn’t sent a bolt of dread through his chest.

But really, what did it matter now he was staring death down?

“Met him, have you?” Deacon croaked after he’d spat the blood out of his throat, “Did you have fun enslaving people with him? That sounds like a grand ol’ time.”

Even half dead, Deacon could read the defensive look that swept itself over her face. He didn’t know what that asshole did to gain Cole’s loyalty in just three weeks, but he was past the point of caring about motives. No one else was firing at Cole; he must be the only one left.

“Looks like I bet on the wrong horse. Didn’t really pick you out as the murdering bitch you turned out to be Wanderer; I want my money back.”

“I really am sorry Deacon. If you knew why I...” She trailed off, eyes dropping away from his. Deacon could only shake his head in disgust, “You’re a good person, and I just wanted to say thank you for having faith in me, I’m sorry.”

“No. No, you don’t get to have closure.” He snarled, how _dare she_ try to justify her actions when the bodies of the only family he’d managed to pull together lay dead around him. Somehow, he got an elbow under himself and pushed himself up with a groan. He was not going to die flat on his back, he was better than that. “I had so many chances to kill you. My biggest mistake was to let you walk out of that Vault. Now just fucking kill me so I don’t have to look at you.”

Cole sighed, and she stepped up next to Deacon’s head. He glared up at her as she moved, cradling his head in her metal gloves. He could feel the fingers twitch around his ears, and he closed his eyes as the horror of his situation caught up to him. She was going to crush his skull; destroy the computer.

“I’m sorry.” The whispered words were the lasts thing he heard, before unbearable pressure squeezed his head and-

...

_“-hackin’ and whackin’ and smackin’-”_

Deacon gasped violently, jerking forward as his hands shot up to hold his pounding head. Something shifted below him with a loud creak, throwing him forward and landing with a heavy thump in a pile on the ground.

Rocks and twigs cut into his arms, but it barely registered through the stunning pain that laced throughout his skull. It pounded with his heart beat, and he curled up into an instinctual fetal position.

His confusion was almost as strong as the pain, where was he?

He blinked his eyes open carefully, his vision swimming in front of him. The landscape of the Wasteland was obvious even through his blurry vision; and it was enough to kick him into action.

He struggled to sit up; there was a heavy weight strapped onto his back that was pulling down his weak body. He managed to roll over to his knees, looking up to see where exactly he was.

His heart stopped when he saw his surroundings. There was a blue fold up chair crumpled to his right; that must have been what he fell off. There was also a smoking fire pit and a radio that was propped up on a small wooden table.

_“-hackin’, whackin’, chopping that meat!”_

Dead grass and dried out twigs crunched under his feet as he straightened up. The wasteland stretched out in front of him, dead trees and fallen logs decorating the landscape. The sky was a rare, bright blue with only the occasional green cloud blocking the view. A gust of wind blew past him, ruffling his clothes and leaving a familiar tingle of radiation across the exposed skin of his face and arms.

“What the fuck?” He muttered. It felt like his brain was struggling to come back online as he looked around. He wasn’t too far from Vault 111, right at the place he’d spent a majority of his time observing it before Cole had come out of it. How in the _hell_ had he gotten up here?

His memory was slipping out of his grip; like water falling through the gaps of a cupped hand. What had he been doing here before he woke up? It had been a year since Cole had....

Cole had...

All at once, the memories came flooding back. Desdemona’s head exploding, the panic as he clung desperately onto Cole’s back, her gun chewing it’s way though his-

His hands flew to his chest and connected with the dirty white shirt covering him. His eyes widened as he looked down at himself; he looked fine. Healthy, even.

How long had it been since the attack?! He knew he healed fast, but that was a lot of damage to heal around. Why hadn’t Cole killed him? What was he _doing_ here?!

His hands brushed the foreign strap over his shoulder, and he swung it off. A very familiar rifle was connected to it, and the smooth touch of the worn wooden handle of it almost threw him as much as his healed chest did.

This was his rifle.

He ran a hand over the barrel, feeling the notches and impurity of the metal he had memorised over the years. If it was a copy, it was an impossibly perfect one.

Something was very, _very_ wrong.

The sound of grinding metal pierced through the quiet of the Commonwealth, and Deacon reacted before he could think. He jumped behind a large boulder that was sitting close to the camp. He turned, peeking up over the rock to stare down at the Vault below him. He frowned as it started to open; the sound of the Elevator reaching him easily.

The horizontal, metal doors were slowly sliding open, and he could see the figure of a person rising from the dark.

He pulled his rifle back into his hands, setting the barrel on top of the boulder to steady it as he crouched to look through the scope, not bothering to take off his glasses. The Vault was below him, give or take a hundred meters. It was an excellent place of surveillance, and he could clearly see the person standing on the platform as it rose to the surface.

His jaw dropped as the person stepped out; looking confused, scared and utterly lost.

Deacon pulled away from the scope and stared incredulously at the vault with his own eyes before ducking his head back to the gun to make sure. There, standing in a bright blue vault suit, was Cole Peters.

...And she didn’t have armour on. Now, Deacon was usually the exact type of person to look a gift horse in the mouth. His paranoia never let him think something just happened because the universe was in his favour, there was always something at play, some trick to fall for. And usually, he was completely right.

But Deacon wasn’t perfect; especially when he was holding a grudge.

He lined to cross hairs up to her head, holding his breath to stop the subtle shaking of the barrel of his gun. He exhaled into the kickback as he pulled the trigger and a loud _crack!_ rang through the-

...

_“-hackin’ and whackin’ and smackin’-”_

Deacon’s eyes snapped wide open and lurched forward, but hastily closed them as the sunlight proved too bright. He caught himself before he could fall off the chair again, and it wobbled threateningly below him as he tried to get his bearings.

He blinked his eyes back open, squinting around him as the world went from a hazy mix of bright colours into focus. His sunglasses had fallen off when he had jolted, and were laying on the ground in front of him. With a clumsy hand, he picked the dark lenses up and shoved them back over his eyes.

He was back sitting in the faded blue fold-up chair, the same burnt out camp fire in front of him and the radio obnoxiously singing next to him.

_“-hacked, whacked, choppin’ that meat!”_

What happened this time?! He’d just pulled the trigger on Cole before the world had gone black...

Someone must have knocked him out.

Shooting up out of the seat he was in, he stumbled forward to his feet. His hand dropped to his laser pistol on his hip. He couldn’t even begin to think _why_ someone would knock him out and leave him with his weapons, but Deacon still couldn’t see them and panic was starting to crawl its way up his throat because that usually meant they had a Stealth Boy.

“Okay,” Deacon said, backing up and drawing his gun, “I know you’re there. You’d be more stealthy if you didn’t go around knocking people out, you know. You’re wasting your Stealth Boy; come out and we can talk like the adults I assume both of us to be.”

Only the radio had anything to say about that, and it did nothing to make Deacon feel better. His eyes darted around him, looking for the tell-tale shimmer of a Stealth Boy.

“Or not. Because staying invisible is very childish of you. Come on buddy, I promise I won’t shoot you.”

Nothing.

After standing there for a couple more seconds, his conviction that he had an audience was starting to flag. Deacon lowered his gun, glancing behind him just to make absolutely sure there really was no one.

Maybe they had run off after knocking him out? This is getting really weird, and the urge to bug out was growing.

Okay, so he needed a plan. HQ was compromised and he was the only survivor. He viciously locked those emotions down before they could overwhelm him; he had a mission now. What he needed to know was if their remaining safe houses had been compromised. Dez and he had kept the locations of them far away from Cole when she’d been hanging around HQ, but now she had free rein of it. There was no telling what she’d stumbled on; if any of their runners had the location on their person the Railroad was doomed. With any luck, P.A.M. would buy him some time. He hadn’t seen her in the fight, it was extremely concerning that she hadn’t come out the instant guns started to fire. Maybe she was hacked?

He needed to check for survivors in those safe houses and move them, which meant finding a new place to house the remaining agents. He also needs to get the numbers of how many Synths they had left in their care and escort them to safety. With any luck, Amari would still be alive, safe, and willing to perform the memory wipe.

But where were they going to go?

His first thought was Goodneighbour. A terrible idea, really, but Deacon only had so many options. Hancock didn’t know who he was, but hopefully he’d be on their side when he mentioned the Railroad. He felt uneasy actually revealing their presence to the Mayor, who’d at this point had only guessed they were around and using the town for their needs. It couldn’t be a long-term solution; but it could potentially buy Deacon enough time to gather their remaining heavies and clear out a building for them to use.

They’d have to go north. He’d already been though the Boston Commons a thousand times; the church had literally been their last option to stay in the city. Moving Synths was going to be near impossible outside of it; getting to Goodneighbour to re-set the memories was also going to have to change. Maybe be could talk Amari into coming with them?

He sincerely doubted it. Amari was one of the Railroads greatest asset and friend, but even she had her limits of how far she’d go for Synths. It was rare to find someone who would drop everything to come help a group of rusted tin cans.

Their only other option was the minutemen, and with how unorganised and small they’d become over the years meant that was an unwise decision. He knew their general, Preston Garvey, was a decent person, but they only had so many resources to spare. He could see the Railroads final end coming to fruition way too easily at their hands.

He was running out of time. He had to make a decision. The future of Synths rested on this, if he didn’t-

The loud grinding of metal cut through the air again, making Deacon jump before swinging around to face Vault 111. He ducked behind a boulder, and felt the Deja Vu increase tenfold when he recognised it as the same one he had hidden behind before. Setting up the barrel again, he looked through the scope.

His breath hitched in disbelief as Cole rose on the elevator again, looking identically confused and scared as she had before. What the hell? He was _sure_ he had shot her.

He watched as she stumbled her way to Sanctuary, as he hung on indecision. Should he shoot her again? It didn’t seem to turn out too well for him last time.

A ludicrous idea was starting to form in his head. It was entirely impossible, and completely insane. But...he should probably test it. Just in case.

Pulling away from the scope he jogged over to the radio, which was wrapping up the ending of ‘Butcher Pete.’  
Plucking off the wooden table and dropping it on the ground, he brought a foot back, and kicked the radio with everything he had. It broke even before it started flying, and the last strangled lyric _“turn this record over you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”_ fizzled out of existence as it crashed and skidded over the rocky ground.

He turned and shoved his foot through the thin material of the folding chair. The faded jeans he was wearing protected most of his leg from the sharp, rusty parts on the seat. It ended up scratching along his ankle where the pants had ridden up, but Deacon just pulled his foot out and turned to follow Cole. If he was right...well, it wouldn’t really matter.

He ran as quietly as he could, crouched slightly to make himself less noticeable and picking up his feet to step over loose stone. He purposely ignored the small pack of Mole Rats, and certainly did _not_ notice the one with the front left leg missing. He found Cole just standing on the outskirts of Sanctuary, frozen in place as she stared at her old town. He didn’t even need to get behind cover she was that distracted. He just pulled the rifle from his back again, lined up the shot, and pulled the trigger. He pressed back into the kickback of the rifle as the bullet sped it’s way-

...

_“-hackin’ and whackin’ and smackin’-”_

This time Deacon didn’t bother to open his eyes. He just sat there, and took a deep breath.

Great. He was insane.

Sitting forward, he rubbed a hand over his still closed eyes and took a deep breath. He’d been ready for this, he was expecting that the computer he called a brain would eventually go on the fritz; it wasn’t like he exactly came with a warranty.

But this was...a very strange way for it to manifest.

This time he waited for the grinding of metal from the vault before standing up.

  
With a lack of a better idea, he followed Cole. He watched her as she picked her way through Sanctuary, and just scowled as she started to cry as she stumbled into her run down house. To think he’d been empathetic when he’d first seen this; if only he’d known what she’d turn into.

She ran into the Mr. Handy there and she got the post-apocalyptic tour around her old neighbourhood. She didn’t stay long, and started making her way towards Concord. Deacon followed behind, out of sight of her untrained gaze. She obviously didn’t remember how to survive in the Wasteland, and her first encounter with a Mole Rat was met with a scream and loud gunshots. That alone convinced him that she couldn’t remember. Every Wastelander worth their weight knew it was next to an offence to waste bullets on a single Mole Rat.

He sat back and watched her first shaky encounter with the Raiders swarming the building that he knew had Preston Garvey, the last of the minutemen, inside it. He remembered being impressed when she’d killed the Raiders when he’d first seen this, but now all he felt was slightly sick. She ducked inside the building when Garvey started begging for help, and Deacon looked around for a building to climb up on to get off the street. He knew that the Deathclaw must be around here somewhere, and though he was pretty sure this was just a delusion he had no desire to get mauled.

He spotted a rusted fire escape that was bolted to one of the three story buildings next to him, and he jumped up to give the rung a test pull. When it didn’t immediately detach and send him crashing to the ground, he shot his other arm up to get a better grip. It groaned as he heaved himself up, using all of his upper body strength to climb the poor excuse for a ladder before he could get his feet on it. He was panting hard, but made short work of the ladder when all his limbs were safely holding onto it.

He slung his leg over the lip of the building when he got to the top, and slid his body up an over until he landed in a heap on the roof of the building. He winced as he sat up, rubbing his sore hands together to get the flecks of rust off them. He rolled over into a crouch, moving silently forward to get a good view of the building Cole had just disappeared into.

He didn’t have to wait long before he spotted her on the opposite roof of the building across from him. Making sure he’d tucked himself out of sight, he watched as she climbed over the wreck of a Vertibird. His eyes darkened as she slid into the Power Armour and picked up the 5mm Machine Gun that was connected to the helicopter. Was that the same weapon she’d gunned down Desdemona with, or was it a brand new one gifted from the Institute?

He heard the Deathclaw before he saw it; the ear splitting roar so loud it almost gave the impression that it shook the buildings around it.

The building actually did shake when Cole leapt from the roof she was perched on, the heavy power armour slamming into the ground with a thunderous bang as metal connected with concrete.

The Deathclaw ran forward, backhanding the nearest Raider and sending him flying into a wall. Deacon was starting to doubt that this was a delusion. The splatters of blood and gore as the Deathclaw raked it’s way through the Raiders was just a little too graphic to not be real. He had a pretty good imagination, but even he couldn’t picture the image of a Deathclaw digging through the torso of another person as clearly as he was seeing it.

Still, he didn’t move when the Deathclaw knocked the helmet off of Cole’s head. This is where he had stepped in before; dressed in dead Raiders clothes as he got the Deathclaw’s attention off of Cole. But now he hesitated, and crossed his fingers as the Deathclaw’s hand came to to split open Cole’s skull, that time wouldn’t skip-

...

_“-hackin’ and whackin’ and smackin’-”_

Damn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins! Come on Deacon, not a good idea to bottle up emotions like that. One day they're gonna explode.
> 
> Playing with the idea of writing some separate chapters away from this story that goes through when Deacon first joined the Railroad, but this fic is already going to be too long for that shit. Originally this was going to be Deacon and High Rise breaking into a gun assembly building for the Institute set about six years before this, and that's how they got notoriety in the Railroad. Already had it written and everything. Also the Railroad already had a spy, an oc called "Burns", that lost his job to Deacon after this and started a series long rival with Burns being a massive dick to Deacon. Sadly Burns was cut from the story, but he and his redemption arc will always remain in my heart. 
> 
> Gimmie a shout if there's any spelling mistakes. Oh, and sorry for the gory bits.


	3. The Grinding Scream of Death

Deacon was irritated. He was also absolutely drenched in lake water, and it did nothing to improve his mood as each step squelched his water logged shoes. He’d been following Cole for _two weeks_ , watching as his temper climbed every time the vault dweller stopped for a couple of hours to duck into an abandoned house or store to scavenge what she could before moving away.

He knew she was going to Diamond City; the walk from Concord to the great green jewel would take only four days to anyone with a normal pace. But no, Cole had to go and make everything ten times more difficult.

He could be doing so many things with his time that didn’t involve him dragging his feet behind his future murderer. In the original timeline, he’d ducked out to touch base with each of the safe houses. He made sure they were communicating, he even cleared out some Ghouls that were inching their way closer to the safe houses and along their travelling rout. Nothing too important, but a heck of a better time than following Cole as she strolled her way through the Wastes.

And the _lake_. That god forsaken lake almost did it for him. Sure, the other option was to try and cross a bridge swarming with Super Mutants. Not ideal to walk through, but he also knew there was a safer path just a few hundred meters away where he could have avoided swimming in some of the most radiated water in the Wastes. But no, Cole had just swum her merry way across the river. And Deacon, not wanting to loose sight of her, had reluctantly followed.

The radiation poisoning had his skin itching furiously, and his stomach rolled as it urged him to heave up the food that wasn’t in there. He’d never forgive the Institute for building him with the potential to feel sick and pain, what good was a Courser that got radiation poisoning?

Dark clouds rolled above him, all tinted with the slightly sick green that meant a rad storm was approaching. He eyed them warily, before sliding his eyes back to the distant figure of Cole.

She’d already vomited a few times after their jaunt in the river; he knew she couldn’t take anymore doses of radiation before keeling over. Luckily, they were finally close to Diamond City. The scenery was starting to change from dead trees and rolling hills to concrete and buildings. It made blending into his environment a lot easier; the tall walls giving him some decent cover that trees just couldn’t offer.

She’d also seemed to be thinking along the same lines as him, and she finally picked up the pace. To stop her from disappearing completely out of sight, he had to start a slow jog that tore a quiet groan of misery from him. He just wanted to lay down and sleep for a few hours, flush the rads out of his system, and head back to HQ to lock himself up and ignore the outside world.

But he knew if Cole got herself killed, he’d be dragged back to that chair and forced to listen to another round of Butcher Pete.

He was starting to develop an intense hatred for Roy Brown and his singing voice.

And as much as he wanted this to stop, it was kind of a nifty excuse to avoid heading back to HQ. Everyone would be _alive_.

The thought that Glory was still walking around had sent his mind reeling when it first occurred to him, and he...

He wasn’t quite ready to face that music. He wasn’t sure how’d he respond if he saw her.

Ticonderoga was also a place that held mixed emotions for him. High Rise would still be alive; Deacon wasn’t sure if he’d be able to face his friend after he failed him so spectacularly last time. It was _his_ job to keep the Institute away from any information about the safe houses, he should have been able to see their attack on Ticon from miles away. But apparently he hadn’t learned after the fall of Switchboard and gotten another one of his friends killed.

They should stay away from him; his bad luck always effected the people around him more violently than it effected himself.

Best to ignore those emotions and figure out why time was repeating itself.

He’d come to the conclusion that this definitely wasn’t his processors rusting. It was all too real; the hunger and sleep deprivation didn’t let up. His aching muscles from this cross-country trip ached too constantly. Sounds were too loud, everything he touched was solid and _there_.

He couldn’t decide if this was a blessing or a curse.

On one hand, he wasn’t dead. On the other, he and everyone he knew were probably going to die again. Deacon was completely, and utterly fed up with this. He couldn’t even begin to guess why this was happening to _him_ of all people.

But at least he could attempt to save the Railroad.

His head hurt with the circles that his thoughts were going in. He concluded since time kept restarting whenever Cole kicked the bucket, he had to keep her alive. He couldn’t let her destroy the Railroad; he assumed this all started because of that. All he had to do was make sure she never found out about the Railroad, get past the point that time looped the first time, and he’d be golden.

He stubbornly ignored the fact that he didn’t know for sure, and that the possibility that these loops would go on forever _completely terrified him-_

Yeah, no wonder his head hurt.

Was someone behind all this, pulling the strings? Or was it just the universe finally dying and Deacon was the one experiencing the side effects? It all seemed too unreal for him to take seriously, and he found himself scoffing at his own thoughts each time ‘time travel’ crossed his mind. He’d read science fiction novels that were more realistic than this. Actual fantasy creatures Deacon would have accepted faster then time re-setting itself. Give him elves, dragons or whatever other creatures that were written in fiction. At least he could explain them away with mutation.

But time travel?

Maybe the Institute was behind this. They’d figured out teleportation after all; time travel couldn’t be _that_ far away science wise if Deacon was experiencing it.

But he couldn’t ignore the voice in his head telling him, yes, time travel was in fact a giant leap from teleportation.

So in short, he was completely baffled at what was happening to him, and he could do nothing but shrug and roll with it.

He felt like he was just waiting around for the final shoe to drop; for everything to be explained to why this was happening, and why this responsibility had been dropped on him. He had a nasty suspicion that he wasn’t going to get an explanation, though.

As the sun was setting, they finally arrived at the gates of Diamond City. The small pitter-patter of rain had started up half an hour ago, ruining any progress his clothes had made on drying themselves. He tucked himself out of sight, slipping into one of the buildings across from the green gates without pulling any attention from the guards that drifted around the entrance of the city.

They were all sufficiently distracted by the very angry Piper Wright, who was yelling at the guards gathered outside the gates.

She looked absolutely furious, but Deacon wasn't worried. As bull headed as Piper could be, Deacon knew she wasn’t an awful person. From the reports he’d gotten from within the city, he knew her heart was in the right place. She was very anti-Institute, and he might have sent out someone to recruit her for the Railroad if she wasn’t so vocal about it with a Institute spy in her own town.

Then, his eyes fell on Mayor McDonough. Speak of the fuckin’ devil and he shall appear.

“Ah shit.” Deacon cursed, backing up back into the shadows. His breath hitched as McDonough eyes drifted towards where he was crouched, and stayed there for a couple of beats. Piper shouted again, and the Mayor’s eyes snapped back at the woman; squinted in fury and impatience.

Deacon’s breath left him with a whoosh of relief, and he put a hand to his chest to try and slow the hard beating of his heart. Arturo had a lot to say about the mayor in his reports; enough that Deacon was convinced that he was the Institute spy in the city. He may not look like much, but synths these days had a wicked sense of hearing and smell; making McDonough an unfortunately effective spy.

Deacon didn’t know if the Institute already had his current appearance identified as a Railroad agent, but he’d rather keep very far away from accidentally handing them that information.

He could still see Cole perfectly fine. She stood out in her bright blue vault suit, hanging back and watching Piper with an air of mild interest and confusion. He couldn’t clearly hear what was being said, but he wouldn’t be surprised if this was about the Piper's paper. Arturo had sent him a couple of copies over the years, and though they were fun to read her slandering the slimy Mayor of the town; he also felt a bit worried. How long until McDonough got sick of her and decided to replace the girl?

Eventually McDonough turned to say something to Cole before he turned and left, leaving Piper and Cole to make their way through to the city.

Looking down at himself and his ratty, torn clothes, he figured that he looked enough like a farmer to get in. He picked at his paper thin t-shirt with slight distaste; he really needed to get something thicker. Or a jacket. A jacket would be nice. He should probably listen to Glory and get some actual armour at some point, but ballistic weave was so expensive, and the day he wore heavy chest plates and shoulder guards was the day he hung up his hat of ‘cool guy of the ‘Wealth’ for good. And honestly, he wasn’t prepared for that.

Sticking his head out of cover to do a routine check for any hostiles, he flicked his gaze around the city entrance. It looked clear; just rubble littering the street, a few leaves blowing through the faint breeze that was coming in with the rain, and a gathering of crows on the old phone lines.

Rolling his shoulders to relax them, he stepped out of hiding, making sure to circle back around the building to make it look like he just strolled up to the gates.

The vaguely familiar guard - Donald, or Danny he thinks - frowned at him cautiously as he approached. He ducked his head, curling his body in on itself to give the impression of vulnerability. The diamond city guards were almost famous for letting in anyone they felt sorry for, and with this in mind he hacked up a few coughs and swayed on the spot.

“What wrong with you?” The guard asked, staring at him with pointed eyes. The man looked him up and down, and the defensive posture relaxed slightly when he was identified as a farmer.

“Radiation, I heard you had a doctor?” He croaked, wincing as if it hurt to speak. He saw the guard nod as he fully relaxed, giving Deacon a sympathetic sort of smile.

“Yeah, but he won’t be available until tomorrow morning. Think you can hold up?”

“I’ll live.” Deacon said with a shaky laugh. The guard nodded and stepped back, gesturing for Deacon to walk in. He gave a grateful smile and shuffled in, only letting his back straighten as the gates closed behind him.

That was just a little too easy to be comforting. He shot a concerned glace over his shoulder before he pressed on down the metal steps into Diamond City. The lights that were splattered across the town were lit brightly as the sun finally drifted under the horizon, and Deacon let out a puff of relief that he wouldn’t have to spend another night out in the Wastes.

He made his way into the town markets, and when he didn’t immediately see Cole plopped down on a seat at the noodle stand to wait.

Arturo was still hanging around Commonwealth Weaponry, and knew he’d be there for the next hour. He closed up later than most; waiting for late Mercenaries to come through and get some last minute ammo. Arturo also had a store of caps that the Railroad had given him to help out travelling agents, and hopefully Deacon could also wrangle a discount out of the man for any clothes he might have in stock. He was itching to change his identity again, but there was no way he was getting a face change in the middle of Diamond City. Some different clothes and a well placed hat would have to do.

And of course Takahashi was still there, in all their glory.

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?”

Deacon spun in his seat, beaming at the robot. The first time he saw the droid with the white chef’s hat propped up on top of the glass casing that acted as a head he’d fallen in love. He briefly looked them up and down to check for any damage they’d taken in the last two years since he saw them, but besides parts where more paint was peeling off they were whole and healthy.

“Hey there Takahashi! It’s been a while hasn’t it?” Deacon said cheerfully, grinning.

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?”

“Yeah it’s been a long couple of weeks.” He said with mock seriousness. He was always pretty psyched to talk to something that responded. The whole spy life wasn’t exactly a social one.

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?”

“I took out a camp of Super Mutants. It was really weird; one of them was dressed as Grognak the Barbarian. He was super into the comics, all the other Super Mutants were making fun of him when I walked in.”

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?”

“Well, you know me; can’t stand a bully. Would've been a movie-like story if the one dressed like Grognak hadn’t tried to kill me too. Alas, my quest for a Super Mutant best buddy has yet again been thwarted.”

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?”

“Nah, I’m okay bud.” Deacon said, and Takahashi waddled away to their cooking pot to stir the wooden spoon sticking out of it once they registered the ‘no’. He looked at the robot thoughtfully, not for the first time he wondered how sentient it was. If they were aware enough to realise where and what they were doing, Deacon couldn’t image it would be fun to only be able to respond to people with one sentence. Or, in fact, stuck making noodles for people who didn’t ever try a conversation with it.

His thoughts of liberating the chef robot were interrupted as he heard Cole’s voice. Thanking his glasses for their dark lenses, he flicked his eyes to the entrance of Publik Occurrences. Cole was walking out without Piper, and was heading towards Swatters store. She ducked into the alley behind it and disappeared from view. He frowned as he watched her; what could she possibly want down there?

He thought hard about the last time he was in the city two years ago to help set up Arturo’s place and get him settled as a Railroad spy. He knew the farms where in that vague direction, but what else could she-

Oh.

Well he felt stupid; of course she was going to see Nick Valentine.

He recalled her telling him about Nick Valentine months ago. He’d asked her how she managed to track down Kellog, and she said something about a dog and and the detective.

He was mildly interested in meeting Valentine; he’d never actually seen him in person. All he knew was that he was Diamond City’s resident detective. Arturo had never really mentioned him in his reports, as rare as they were; it was mostly things saying that the dude had found a cat, or helped a rouge teen get back to their family. Inconsequential, unimportant stuff in the greater picture of the Commonwealth. Nothing to bother looking into.

Sliding out of his seat, he went in the other direction Cole did and passed Chem-I-Care. He walked up to the agency the opposite way Cole had approached it at, and crept behind the building. He was rewarded with a hole in the concrete wall; it looked like it had a cinder block placed in front of it, blocking his view but leaving room for noise to filter out more easily. He crouched next to it, and could hear muffled voices talking.

“-tracked them down to their hideout in Park Street Station. There’s an old Vault down there they use as a base. I told Nick it was a trap, but he just smiled and walked out the door like he always does.” A soft voice was speaking, and Deacon frowned. It sounded like the Detective was out then, and possibly kidnapped. Cole spoke next, and her voice was slightly more muffled than the other lady’s. She must have been further back in the room.

Deacon shifted closer to the wall, pressing his head on it. The rough concrete beneath his cheek scraped over the stubble he’d been ignoring for two weeks, and he listened closer.

“I’ll find him for you.”

“He should be easy to spot, he always wears that old hat of his; you can’t miss him-”

Deacon pulled away at the finality in the mystery woman’s voice, backing up with silent footsteps. He’d done this enough times to know when a conversation was wrapping up. He had to get back to Power Noodles before Cole came out, and blend back into the background.

He picked his way back to the noodle stand. So, the detective had gotten himself caught, and Cole was going to find him.

He really should know more about Nick Valentine, from what he understood he was highly influential in Diamond City. He took a moment to kick himself for overlooking him before all this shit started, and promised himself that he’d go to Arturo in the morning to get a better idea of the guy. He needed to know whether Deacon could consider him an ally he could ignore, or a Institute spy he had to keep an eye on.

By the time Cole walked back into the Market, Deacon had set himself back on the stool and waved Takahshi back to her cooking pot.

Now he had to decide if he was gonna follow her or not.

He could go with her; but it’d be difficult blending inside a Vault. You could get cornered following someone in an indoor space like that. And though he was confident he could keep his presence away from this ‘Nick’ guy, he didn’t really want to get into that kind of situation without having more of an idea about his skill level.

And it wasn’t like he didn’t know if Cole would survive; she did before and was fine. He also knew that she was just going to come back here with the detective anyway. He could chill here for a couple of days, get his caps sorted and send a message off to HQ about their newly awakened walking popsicle.

He could also do something he hadn’t been able to do last time; warn them about Cole. Because he’d be damned if she was allowed to join them this time.

No, this time he was going to save the Railroad.

He’d made up his mind by the time Cole started walking up the long line of stairs to the exit of Diamond City, raising his eyebrows in mild surprise as she left. This town may have a few lights to fight off the dark, but it was very much nighttime and still raining outside.

It was almost enough to convince Deacon to follow after all; it was near suicide to go walking through the Wasteland in the dark. But, as he had thought before, she’d already survived it once.

No, he had shit to do here. And it wasn’t like he was worried about her; in fact the thought of her getting shot down by a Raider’s snipers gun was just a bit cathartic. But if he woke up to ‘Butcher Pete’ one more time he might scream.

He kept saying this to himself as he stood and stiffly walked over to the Dugout. He needed a bed and a dry place; his pants were still soaked through from the River and they needed to be hung up tp dry.

Walking into the Dugout was like walking into an oven. A cigarette smelling, alcohol stained oven. It must have been a ten degree increase at least, and Deacon could already feel sweat starting to gather on his brow from the thick, warm air.

Vadim was at the bar, chatting loudly with someone who was valiantly trying to choke down the rocket fuel Vadim called Moonshine. It was with some relief that Deacon saw he would have an easy time avoiding the man. Deacon liked Vadim, but damn could that man talk. He had no interest hanging around another two hours to hear one of his stories and answer questions. It was a busy night, and the sight of every patron smoking made Deacon scratch for one of his own. Scarlett was fluttering around collecting plates and glasses, disappearing in and out of the back room as Yafim was left to stand moodily next to the rentable rooms, guarding them from people wanting to sneak in and squat for the night.

Deacon trotted over, fishing the last of his caps from his pocket as he went.

“Hey, Yafim right? Want to rent a room.” Deacon said, giving his most charming smile. As he knew it would, it didn’t pull a reaction out of the other man.

“Ten caps.” Yafim said, short and sweet, as he held his hand out to Deacon.

He handed out the caps, and watched as Yafim carefully counted them. He nodded and pocketed the caps before turning back to Deacon.

“The nearest room to the left is free. Don’t mess it up too badly or you pay twenty caps tomorrow.” Yafim warned, stepping out of the way of the rooms.

“No worries, my man.” Deacon said, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed. Yafim just levelled a flat stare at Deacon’s wide grin.

As soon as the door closed behind him, he let is shoulders fall and heaved a sigh. The room was small, with a bed shoved into the corner and a dresser tucked up next to it. He sank into the bed gratefully, and rolled his shoulder to get a lingering ache out. He groaned as he stretched out his legs, before leaning down to undo the muddied laces on his shoes.

He pulled the soggy shoes off, and chucked them into the corner. The further those horrors were away from him the better he’d feel. Peeling off his socks, he winced at the pruning, pale skin. They plopped to the floor, weighed down by the water.

Shucking off his pants, he hung them over the steel end of the bed frame. Picking up his socks, he hung them as well before peeling off his shirt. It had more success drying on his person than his pants did, but the arms were still sticking uncomfortably to him.

He wished he had a cloth and a bucket of water to wash in, and maybe a few bags of rad-away. He’d just have to hope that his skin didn’t melt off before morning when he could get Sun to look over him.

He stretched out on the bed, and sighed in pleasure at laying down flat for the first time in weeks. The springs were poking into him, so he shifted around trying to find a place where the mattress was still padded. He didn’t have much luck, but as long as he wasn’t sleeping on rocks he’d make do.

...

  
In the morning, Deacon strolled out of his room wide eyed and alert, wearing only slightly damp clothes. He’d spent most of the night jerking awake from nightmares, and the latest one finally had him up and moving. Good thing too, because Deacon's stomach was threatening him to eat something or it would eat itself. Yafim wasn’t guarding the doors this morning; he could spot him on the opposite side of the Dugout, slouched over the bar and looking tired. Vadim, however, was his usual energetic self, and Deacon was spotted as he made his way through the Inn.

“There he is! Our newest paying customer; was the room good or great?” Vadim boomed, gesturing wildly with his hands to tell Deacon to come over.

Deacon grinned, trotting over. Vadim looked exactly like he had two years ago; tall, muscled, and with an incredibly friendly face. His accent was interesting as ever; the strange tilt he spoke with always grabbed his attention.

“Slept like a baby; that bed could be mistaken for a cloud. Well, excluding the deadly radiation particles.” Deacon added, leaning his elbows on the bar. Vadim boomed out a laugh.

“Perhaps a very springy cloud! I’ve slept on those mattresses, you can’t fool me with false flattery.” Vadim said, and leaned close as if to tell a secret, “But it will get you everywhere, friend. What’s your name?”

“It’s Jason.” Deacon said, sticking out his hand to shake with a smile. Vadim’s hand almost engulfed his own as Vadim took it, shaking it with a bit too much enthusiasm. “Awesome to meet you..?”

“Vadim! I’m that stick in the mud’s brother.” He said, pointing towards Yafim, who scowled at them from his seat. “I joke! No need to get offended, Yafim.”

“I’m not offended, you’re just being incredibly loud.” Yafim muttered, turning away to take a drink from his can of purified water.

“I’m sure, Yafim. Never known you to be sensitive about anything!” Vadim said with a mischievous grin, but when he was ignored he turned back to Deacon, “What are you doing in Diamond City, Jason?”

“Just passing through,” Deacon said with the shrug of a shoulder, “Might be sticking around for a couple of days though.”

“Ah, good. I’ll reserve your room for you then.” Vadim said with a deciding nod. Deacon, who had been low-key hoping that it would be offered, gave Vadim a grateful smile.

“Thanks Vadim, I’ll let you know before I head out of town. I can get you your caps when I roll back through here later.”

“Magnificent! Taking care of business today, then?”

“Less business, and more like last minute errands.” Deacon said, and figuring he should leave this conversation before Vadim continued with the questioning, added, “Taking care of some radiation problems, you know how it is.”

“You should probably get that looked at, friend.” Vadim said with raised eyebrows, “Don’t want your organs falling out of your ears.”

“And that is why I must take my leave.” Deacon said, clapping his hands together. “I’ll see you around Vadim. Stay cool Yafim!”

Yafim gave him an aborted wave as Deacon backed out of the Dugout, and into the heart of Diamond City. It was busy this morning; people bustling about to the stores, and kids chasing each other through the market.

Deacon started his way towards Commonwealth Weaponry, and could see Arturo standing behind the desk looked bored. They caught each other’s eyes as Deacon walked closer, and Arturo gave him the smile all sales people give to potential customers.

“Hey, names Arturo. Haven’t seen you around here before, but if it’s weapons you’re looking for, I sell ‘em.” Arturo said. Just like Vadim, he hadn’t changed much in two years either. The stress lines around his eyes were more pronounced, and Deacon could confidently hazard a guess to what had caused that. Besides that however, he still styled his dark hair up and his beard stayed tightly trimmed to his face.

“Oh great! Good to know your sign is on brand.” Deacon said cheerfully, pointing up at the large ‘Commonwealth Weaponry’ sign above their heads. “But hey, you wouldn’t happen to have a Geiger Counter, would you?”

Arturo’s disposition changed drastically at that; his eyes became instantly more guarded, and he leaned back from the counter slightly. He cast his eyes around Deacon, looking for anyone suspicious. Deacon nearly rolled his own; he should really teach Arturo some tricks about being subtle.

“Don’t sell any here, but my personal one is in the shop.” Arturo said carefully. Deacon gave him a reassuring grin; Arturo rarely got direct contact with agents outside of Diamond City, an unexpected visit usually meant bad news.

“Okay, I’m really here just to pick up those caps you owe me.” Deacon said, and he could see Arturo relaxing slightly.

“Of course.” Arturo said, giving Deacon a small smile. He pulled a key ring out of his pocket, and ducked behind the counter. He heard Arturo fumbling with something metallic, and then the ‘click!’ of a lock turning. He stood with a large pouch of caps and handed them to Deacon’s outstretched palm.

Deacon tossed the cap pouch in the air before catching it, and guessed there was about two hundred caps in it by the weight. This would see him through nicely, and help him stock up on food for when he had to take up following Cole again.

“You should really get a better poker face, Art. It’s not hard to beat you in a game.” He said, trying to twist his words enough that Arturo would still understand what he was trying to say, but be vague enough that a passer-by would dismiss their conversation, “Think you can get a message to our Caravan buddies that I can’t make it to the next couple of games?”

Arturo nodded, a frown growing on his face, “Yeah, no problem. Spending time with your son again? I’ve forgotten his name; how’s he doing?”

Deacon had to hold back a smirk at that, at least Arturo knew how to be discrete in words, if not body language.

“It’s Deacon, and he’s doing alright. He’s hit a rough patch, been a bit cagey about it. But I’m sure he’ll tell us all about it in a week or so.” He could see the moment Arturo recognised his name, and he finally saw the other man relax fully and give him a genuine smile.

“It was nice to see you again man, it’s been too long.”

“I’ll be sticking around for a couple more days, blessing all you Diamond City folk with my gorgeous face.” He said with a grin, and Arturo rolled his eyes at him.

“’Gorgeous' is really pushing it.” He said with a grin, and Deacon gasped loudly and put a hand to his heart.

“You cut me deeply, buddy. Honest and truly. Feral Ghouls have better manners than you.” Deacon pouted sulkily, giving Arturo a wide eyed, pitiful look that he was sure wasn’t working. “But I will forgive you if you tell me something.”

“Oh? And what is that?” Arturo asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I’ve been hearing around about this ‘Valentine’ guy. What’s your opinion on him; is he a good egg?” Arturo blinked at him, and Deacon gave a hurrying wave of his hands to get him to talk.

“I like him,” Arturo said with a painfully fake casual shrug, “The whole of Diamond City trusts him.”

“And you?” Deacon said, watching his reactions carefully. Arturo gave another shrug, and Deacon had to hold back a lecture of the normal shrug ratio there generally was in a conversation. The answer was, just don’t shrug. It’s surprisingly hard to pull off a casual shrug without looking shifty, and Arturo was repeatedly proving his point.

“Yeah,” Arturo said with only a slight hesitancy, “Yeah, I trust him.”

Deacon nodded; that was enough to get Valentine off his shit list, at least. As bad as Arturo was in being subtle sometimes, he was damn perceptive.

Speaking of which, Arturo pulled out a pack of smokes from his back pocket, and stuck out the end of a cigarette towards him. Arturo grinned as Deacon neatly picked it out of the packet, catching the lighter that was thrown at him a moment later.

“Looked like you were burning for one.” Arturo said, pulling out one of his own. Deacon flipped the lighter, and a flame popped out to light his smoke. He passed it back to Arturo, taking a deep, grateful drag.

“Don’t know what you mean, Art.” Deacon said, letting smoke spill from his mouth. Looking back at Arturo with a critical eye, he asked, “Valentine good at what he do?”

“Excellent, from what I’ve heard.” Arturo said, lighting his own smoke. “I’ve never had to employ him, myself. I’d suggest to never underestimate him.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Deacon said, and neither of them believed it. He watched Arturo stand there for a couple of seconds; his shoulders were set in a way that told Deacon he was confident in his words about Valentine. He only wish that he had that much confidence in himself right now. “Anyway, do you have any fusion cells? I’m running low.”

...

It took two days for Cole to come trudging back into town, and by that time Deacon had purchased a satchel made from stitched pillow cases, and an assortment of food. A new faded black t-shirt and a darker pair of jeans were stuffed into the bag, with an old scratched, dirty brown stetson hat folded carefully on top of the pile. As soon as he saw the hat in Myrna’s small collection of clothes, all his old fantasies about being a gun slinging cowboy came rushing back and he snatched it up. He’d even been able to find a Pompadour wig that looked pretty decent from John at the Super Salon.

Fitting shoes were like gold in the Commonwealth; so he decided to stick with his old pair of tennis shoes until he could get to his collection back at HQ. He hadn’t managed to find a decent jacket yet, but he’d made it this far without one so he was sure it wouldn’t be a huge issue for him.

He’d also finally gotten his hands on a packet of cigarettes, as well as some more ammo for both his guns which was kept in his pockets, and a freshly filled lighter. The hair on his head and face had been shaved off, leaving smooth skin and anonymity in its’ wake.

With his rifle strapped to his back, his modified laser pistol shoved into the belt of his jeans, and a hunting knife in the holster on his thigh; he felt the most ready he’d been in weeks.

He really should have expected that feeling to been thrown out the window when Cole came back into town with the infamous Nick Valentine on her heels.

The infamous, very synthetic, Nick Valentine.

Deacon made a mental note to have a stern conversation with Arturo about providing important details in his reports.

He couldn’t keep himself from gaping momentarily before snapping his mouth shut and looking away. Nick Valentine was a god-damn Gen Two Synth. Did he have his own personality or was it all programmed from the Institute? He hadn’t even heard of any experiments with gen two synths, and he knew Valentine had been in the Commonwealth before him so he couldn’t be new model.

Could the detective have been built before Deacon was?

Was he not the first Synth who’d developed a personality? Were there others like Valentine? Why had Deacon never been tasked to bring him back, let alone never hearing about him?

Thoughts swirled in his head as conflicting emotions swam around in his chest, making him frown down at his noodles. He wasn’t sure how he should feel about this. For some inconceivable reason that Deacon didn’t want to get into, he felt slightly...offended.

He pushed the thought away. No matter who Deacon had thought he was a decade ago, he was now completely different. It didn’t matter if he was under the false impression that A3-21 was the first to break out of the mould and gain sentience, even if he did continue to follow orders for too many years. It didn’t matter if A3-21 was always viciously proud of that fact when he was enslaved and clung onto any self-worth he could find. He was _Deacon_ and he had bigger things to worry about like _time_ _repeating_ _itself_ , and it _really didn’t matter_.

Cole was leading the way, now changed out of her vault suit and wearing road leathers. He snorted quietly when he saw what the detective was wearing; a long brown trench coat and a worn fedora. He looked like he’d come from one of Deacon’s old crime novels, if it wasn’t for the whole synth thing.

And oh boy was the synth thing obvious. He looked like a Gen Two; with the glowing yellow eyes and plastic skin. At the same time, it was almost impossible to confuse him with the mindless robots that the Institute was pushing out. There was something about the way he carried himself; a sense of cool, calm confidence. His eyes were warily scanning the crowd of Diamond City, and Deacon frowned slightly in confusion. From what he’d gathered Nick was very welcome in town, and should be right in his comfort zone. There was tension in his shoulders, and when Deacon looked closely at his face he could swear he saw a look of confusion of his own.

Then the detectives eyes slid over to him, and stayed there. Deacon once again thanked his glasses for covering his eyes and continued to eat his noodles as casually as possible. He was able to keep looking at the detective discretely, and Valentine’s eyes squinted to what looked like to be deep thought.

That was a very bad sign.

Deacon fought to stop any outward signs that he noticed he was being watched, counting his breaths and keeping them deep. He was sure he had nothing to worry about, the detective must have just seen he was new in town and not one of the regulars. Probably just making a note of his existence before he moved on.

Deacon silently cursed as the detectives eyes hardened, and seemed to bore into the side of his head. Thankfully, he just followed Cole around the Noodle Stand and to the Detective’s agency. There was a moment when they were close enough to touch, and Deacon kept his head down and fought the sweat that wanted to break out across his brow.

As soon as Valentine was out of sight, Deacon stood up from his chair and picked up his noodles. It sloshed around in the bowl as he quickened his steps; now seemed like a great time to put on his disguise.

As he made his way to a little private area behind the residential houses, he chewed on his lip in worry. It wasn’t very likely that the Detective had picked him out to be watching them, and there was no way he’d know Deacon had been Cole’s shadow for the last few weeks.

Deacon tore out of his shirt and pulled his new one from his bag. It was soft with age, but pleasantly thick and black. He got changed as fast as possible, and pulled the Pompadour on his head. His skin itched as he adjusted it on his head, doing his best to set it without a mirror. The hat completed the look, and Deacon let himself breathe properly for the first time since Valentine had stared him down.

Yeah, it wasn’t likely Valentine had noticed anything interesting about him, but a healthy dose of paranoia had been keeping him alive for a while now.

He shoved his old clothes in his bag, and took a moment to think. So, he had a couple of options; follow them to the agency and ‘overhear’ what they were talking about. Or, hide and observe until they came out and follow them to Kellog. Or he could...

Deacon thoughts slowed as he let out a tired sigh, and rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. He leaned up against the steel wall of the house next to him, ignoring the way it creaked under his weight. Deacon’s eyes were heavy in exhaustion, and the weight on his shoulders settled a little more firmly.

He couldn’t keep avoiding his duties to the Railroad like this, there were dozens of synths across the Commonwealth that needed to be moved into settlements as soon as possible. The universe might be breaking but that didn’t mean he could ignore the people who were suffering right now. Deacon was suppose to be finding new safe houses to set up, and where was he? Following the person who had been the downfall of the Railroad and trying to keep this timeline alive. His stomach churned in guilt, and he had to swallow against the sick feeling in his throat.

What the fuck had his life turned into.

And it wasn’t like he could just let Cole go on by herself, he wasn’t doing this because it was fun. He desperately wanted to know _why_ Cole had betrayed them. He hadn’t expected it, Deacon had never read a person so wrong in his life. She had seemed fine when she first joined; empathetic to their cause and eager to help.

He wanted to know when her mind changed. And he wanted to change it back.

He took another deep breath, and tried to focus on the decision in front of him. He was unsure if he should follow her because Kellog might have been the one to start swaying her towards the Institute. Words lasted long after death, and Kellog may have said something that stuck. Deacon had a gut feeling that Kellog had something to do with Cole’s final decision. He couldn’t explain it past ‘Kellog is a bad guy’, but he knew by now it was wise to listen to feelings like that.

Either way, the decision would be forced on him if they left without him there to see it. He pushed off the wall and adjusted the bag on his shoulder and he walked back to the market. He left his bowl of noodles; he wasn’t very hungry anymore.

...

  
Instead of heading back over to the noodle stand, he went over to the weapon station next to Arturo’s and waited. Pulling out his laser pistol he grabbed the tools that Arturo kept stocked up for public use.

He could tell that Arturo was shooting glances up at him without needing to look up at the other man; probably wondering what the heck he was doing cleaning a gun that he’d just cleaned that morning. But Deacon ignored him completely, falling into the methodical movements as he kept his senses stretched out and waiting.

He was going to follow both of them to find Kellog; it felt too important to not be there for. But Valentine had spooked him with that look, so he was going to wait here for them like a good little spy instead of following them to Valentines agency. Perhaps he had underestimated Valentine against Arturo’s advice; looked like he had more skills beside tracking down lost pets.

Deacon was starting to feel nervous about the trip ahead of them; if the Synth had picked him out that easily in a crowd; how obvious would he be when it would just be the three of them?

He pushed the thoughts away and scrubbed at his pistol harder. He’d have to cross that bridge when he got to it. He was Deacon, top spy of the Railroad. He’d manage it, he had to.

He almost dropped the laser pistol when Cole walked around the corner, but he kept his body relaxed and casual. From the corner of his eye he saw her head past the Weaponry, and tilting his head slightly he saw her walk through the market.

He frowned as she came closer to the steps that lead up and out of Diamond City; she didn’t have Valentine with her. Was she going to leave without him?

He perked up a little at that, some of the tension in his chest fading. Maybe his luck was turning around finally, he was due for some good karma.

His optimism went in flash as soon as Cole turned, walking up the path to the Mayor’s office.

He hastily assembled his gun and shoved it into his belt. He needed to follow her; who knew what she was going to do up there? There was the possibility that this was the point she’d turned to the Institute, but there was small piece of him that desperately hoped not. If she’d been a traitor from the very start, he didn’t know how he’d handle that.

He went to step forward, but was stopped when something gripped his shoulder. Deacon almost leapt in panic, swivelling around to look at who had grabbed him.

Nick Valentine stared back at him.

He looked rougher up close; the cracks in his artificial skin looking more painful and unsettling. The skin on the side of his face was torn off; exposing the metallic jaw-bone and skull. He had to hold back a wince of sympathy at that; there was no way he escaped whatever had attacked him without intense pain. Gen two’s might not have much in terms of nerves, but he knew from experience the Institute had programmed every Synth after the Gen Ones to experience pain.

Deacon didn’t know how the Synth was doing it with a mechanical face, but while Valentine’s expression remained casual, there as a look of suspicion in his eyes. Deacon quickly pulled himself together, relaxing and giving Valentine a lop-sided grin.

“Hey, you scared me for a second there. You must be that Valentine guy I’ve been hearing about. No one mentioned the metal bits, though.” Deacon said with a charming grin, shrugging his shoulder to try and get the hand off him. The hand didn’t move, and he felt a blossom of discomfort.

“Yeah that would be me; sorry for the shocking visual.” Valentine said, and Deacon had to stop himself from blinking in surprise at the deep, boston accent. And he’d thought the hat and coat was over-kill; the Institute really went all out on this guy. “I’m Diamond City’s resident detective, so I’m wondering why you were about to follow the kid.”

“Uh,” Deacon said with a laugh, “What kid? I’m new here man. Don’t know anyone from anybody.”

“I’m also curious about why you’re wearing a new outfit from the one I saw you in half an hour ago.” Valentine’s eyes were cutting into Deacons. The hand was still on his shoulder, and he gave it another roll to get it off. The hand didn’t budge.

“Look man, I’ve never seen you before.” Deacon took a step backwards, and _finally_ the hand dropped away. “And you’re kinda starting to weird me out, so I’m gonna bounce.”

“You’re wearing the exact same glasses and shoes.” Valentine said flatly, quirking an eyebrow at Deacon sceptically. ”And I don’t know about you, but I haven’t exactly seen a mass-producing fashion factory pop up in the last two hundred years.”

Deacon could only stare blankly, looking disinterested, as his mind scrambled in panic.

Shit. He just had to run into a freakin’ detective when he had a sub par disguise. He really shouldn’t be shocked; it lined up perfectly with his history of terrible luck.

“So I’m going to ask you again; why are you following the lady?”

“I’m not following anyone!” Deacon said, throwing his hands up in faux frustration, “I’m just heading back to the Dugout for a drink. You’re welcome to come with if you get that mini nuke out of your ass.”

Valentine only frowned at that, but he looked more calculating than pissed off. Deacon deflated a little when his comment failed to get the Synth angry; that usually worked. Instead, the detective tilted his head at Deacon, like looking at him from a different angle would show him something new.

Yeah, would have very much preferred anger.

They held each others gaze for a few seconds longer before the Synth seemed to come to a decision.

“You weren’t around last time.” Valentine said, lowering his voice and leaning closer to Deacon with folded arms. The trench coat made him look bigger than he actually was, “I think you know something about it.”

This time the shock on Deacon’s face was completely natural. His mouth went dry, eyes widening as he stared dumbfounded at the Detective.

Last time? Did he mean...?

The satisfied look that crossed over the Synths face spoke volumes, and he leaned back, not taking his eyes off Deacon’s.

“Thought so. I want an explanation, but we should probably go somewhere where there ain’t an audience.” Valentine flicked his eyes towards the market before bringing them back to Deacon, and gave him a meaningful look.

This was totally a trap. Such an obvious trap it almost hurt to see Valentine looking so innocent about it. Maybe the Institute _had_ created time-travelling tech after all; it’s not like he’d been around to keep an eye on what they were doing lately.

There was a small voice in the back of his head that sounded disconcertingly like Tinker Tom screaming that if there was even the slightest possibility, he should assume that they had.

He should leave; right now. Disappear, check on the safe houses and come back when Cole inevitably ditched Valentine. She’d done that last time after they killed Kellog; it would happen again. If there was even a chance that the Institute was behind this, he should leave and never come back.

But there was something about Valentine that made him hesitate. Maybe it was Deacon’s innate curiosity reacting to this odd person in front of him. He’d thought he’d known about every type of Synth that had come out of the Institute in the last eighty years; but Valentine was something completely different.

More importantly; he was experiencing time looping as well. Did the detective know something he didn’t? Even just the fact that he now knew he wasn’t alone in this insanity comforted him, helping to quiet the rushing doubt that whispered in his head about this all being his imagination. Could he afford to ditch a lead he’d been desperately hoping for over the weeks, a chance to figure out what the hell was going on?

“I ain’t gonna bite, if you’re worried about that.” Valentine said, and Deacon saw him slip his metal hand into the pocket of his coat. There was a hint of insecurity in his body language, and even as he struggled to stop it he felt a flash of empathy for the guy. If he was a Institute plant, he was an an extremely good one. But if he wasn’t...

He’d never failed to help out a Synth before in the last few decades. Why start here?

Against his better judgement, he gave a hesitant nod.

They ended up in Valentines office; it wasn’t as cramped as he’d imagined when he was outside two days ago. By wasteland standards it was almost neatly kept. There were hundreds of files sticking out of filing cabinets that looked like they’d stopped being able to close years ago, and he found himself feeling slightly impressed at the number of them. Were these all his solved or on going cases?

There was a pretty woman sitting behind the front desk, and when they stepped in she gave Valentine a wide smile. She must be the owner of the voice he'd heard talking to Cole. Her gazed slipped over to him and fell into a familiar calculating look. Feeling slightly awkward at the attention he gave a small wave, which she returned with a confused smile. Valentine told her to take the rest of the day off, and she left leaving just the two of them in the dimly lit room.

There were loose files scattered across the desk, and Valentine quickly stacked them into a slightly neater pile and pushed them to the side. He gestured to the chair in front of the desk, silently inviting him to sit.

“Think I’ll stay standing, champ.” Deacon said with a forced smile, and Valentine just shrugged and leaned against the table. Deacon’s whole body was tensed, his muscles were about to snap like a piece of rubber stretched to its limit.

“So, I guess I’ll start this off.” Valentine said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from a pocket in his trench coat. He lit it and took a drag, looking expectantly over at Deacon. “I don’t know why exactly, but I’ve been waking up in the past.”

“Sounds stressful.”

“Very.” He agreed, mumbling past the lit cigarette in his mouth, “Thought the gears in my head had finally stopped turning. It’s happened a few times now; they’ve been getting longer before everything is turned back to what it was a year ago from when I originally got sent back. Skinny Malone’s hospitality hasn’t exactly been getting better either.”

“Who’s Skinny Malone?” Deacon asked, making sure his face was appropriately confused at the name. Of course he actually knew who Malone was; a couple of escaped Synth’s who’d had their memories wiped had joined the gang not long ago. He’d come to the conclusion that they were mostly safe for now and not to bother them, who was he to pass judgement over the decisions Synths made in their freedom?

“Old friend,” Valentine answered, waving off the question, “But don’t leave me hanging here. Has the same been happening to you, or have I gone insane?”

Deacon hesitated. He really didn’t want to start talking about this, but if Valentine was telling the truth, he didn’t see how he had a choice. There was so many unanswered questions Deacon had, this situation was so bizarre he’d take any help at this point.

“Yeah. Yeah it has. Time seems to re-start whenever Cole kicks the metaphorical bucket.” He said carefully. “But you could be hallucinating me right now, so I don’t think my words are worth much.”

“But why? I wasn’t even around Cole when the re-start first happened.” Valentine said, a look of deep frustration twisting his face, “What do I have to do with this?”

“First order of business, can we stop calling re-starts?” Deacon said, falling back into the comforting familiarity of cracking jokes. This atmosphere was much too tense for his liking, “I feel like we could be a lot more creative about this. We could go with time loops, or temporal twists. Throw some alliteration in there to really get the brand going.”

“Temporal Twists does have a ring to it.” Valentine said, and Deacon was a little surprised to see the small quirked smile break through the Synths frustration, “But how about we brain storm that _after_ we figure out what’s going on.”

“Sure, I guess. I was around when the first temporal twist happened. To be specific, I was getting my skull crushed by our resident Vault dweller.” Deacon said as nonchalantly as possible. Valentine looked taken aback, staring Deacon with wide eyes. He should keep this vague, there was no reason why he had to tell the Synth he was with the Railroad, and if Valentine was with the Institute giving him that detail could be detrimental.

“What?” He breathed, going rigid.

“After she shot and killed all my closest friends, that is.” He added, watching warily as the words riled the Detective up more.

“Why would she do that? You don’t exactly look like a raider.” Valentine was looking at him like Deacon held all the answers, and it make him want to fidget as his nerves stressed. Okay, so maybe Valentine didn’t know what was happening any better than he did.

“Look, I don’t know why Father-Time decided to take us on a ride of our lives.” Deacon said, deciding to bite the bullet and share a bit more information, “But I do know that Cole joined the Institute, and as soon as I died I woke up a year in the past.”

As soon as he mentioned the Institute, he saw a flash of conflicting emotions fly across the Synth’s face. Deacon found himself surprised again, he had no idea there were enough motors in a gen twos face to pull off this range of expressions. What _was_ Valentine?

“Who are your friends?” Valentine asked, and Deacon answered smoothly.

“No one really, just some guys I hang with. Don’t know why we were targeted.”

Valentine didn’t answer for a long time, and he just held Deacon’s eyes with his own until he got uncomfortable enough to flick them away from the Synth’s face. The detective tilted his head in thought, and gave him a once over.

“You’re part of the Railroad.” Valentine whispered, eyeing him form under his hat.

“What?!” Deacon choked, alarms firing off in his head as he took a sudden step back. There was no way Valentine had just figured that out. “I think you’re confused. I’m just a farmer.”

“Who else would Cole go after if she joined the Institute?” Nick said slowly, narrowing his eyes at him. Deacon had to resist to jump forward and slam a hand over the others mouth.

“First of all, _keep your voice down!_.” Deacon hissed, moving swiftly forward into the Synth’s space so he could hear the rushed, whispered words. He strained his ears to try and hear anyone standing out the office, listening in on them. If Diamond City got swarmed with Coursers because Valentine couldn’t keep his mouth shut, he was keeping the Synth personally responsible for every death, “Second of all, I’m just a friendly farmer who’s family was killed after they were taken by the Institute. That’s all the connection I have, maybe they wanted to finish the job.”

“Don’t joke about that.” Valentine said flatly, and Deacon had to stop himself from snarling defensively, “A farmer who disguises themselves minutes after a Detective takes note of them? A farmer who’s been sent back in time after they were murdered? A farmer who doesn’t even blink when a Synth grabs them by the shoulder? I’ve heard a lot of lies in my time, and you’re bad at telling them.”

“Bad at it?!” Deacon spluttered, gaping back at Valentine, feeling completely and utterly offended. He was a little more sure he wasn’t hallucinating; he would have thought up a much less annoying person to share his delusions with. He was great at lying, _the best_ at lying.

“Yeah, you are. Now, the way I look at this is we’re both in this together. I’m still not completely sure I’m not imagining all of this, so you’re going to have to be honest with me so we can figure this out.”

“Hold up.” Deacon said, holding up a hand to stop. This conversation was getting wildly out of hand, very quickly, “You’re asking a for a tall glass there. How do I even know that _you_ aren’t Institute?”

“Look at me; do I look like I’ve been getting professional patch-ups? They threw me in the trash eighty years ago, and I’ve never seen a trace of them since.” Valentine said, gesturing towards himself.

Well, that was true at least. Valentine definitely wasn’t getting fixed by anyone knowing what they were doing. He eyed the torn skin on the side of the Synths face; he wouldn’t even be let back into the Institute looking like that. He had all too much experience with their obsession with clean and perfect things; he’d be scrapped for parts immediately.

But just thrown out in the trash? That he didn’t believe, especially in the height of the Institute cover-up scheme eighty years ago.

And his DIY repair work didn’t mean he wasn’t reporting back to them. Sure, they’d never tolerate his sass. And maybe seeing a Generation Two Synth with a personality was almost as shocking to Deacon as time-rewinding itself. Zimmer had barely liked him, and he talked back maybe once before he’d left. He’d been locked up in-

_Don’t think about that._

“For what it’s worth, I admire your work.” Valentine said softly, leaning back onto the desk. His mouth was drawn down into a grim line, and was staring directly into Deacons eyes. Even though he still had his sunglasses on, it felt like Valentine could read him all too clearly. He dropped his eyes down to look at the detectives coat instead. “I’m glad there’s people out there helping Synths, no one else is.”

“Okay.” Deacon heaved a sigh, pinching the bridge on his nose. Valentine wasn’t going to budge. Don’t let it be said he didn’t know when to cut his losses when he had to.“Say...say that I am part of a group. And let’s say that Cole single-handily destroyed it. What then?”

“We stop it from happening.” Valentine said, putting out his burnt out cigarette on an ash tray that was sitting on the desk, “The re-starts happened directly after it, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Temporal Twists.” Deacon reminded him weakly, instinctively trying to defuse the tension, “And I don’t know what to tell you Valentine, but it still doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. If you’re not the one hallucinating, I sure am.”

“No kidding, this is the strangest thing that ever happened to me.”

“Ever happened period, I’d say.” Deacon said, shrugging a shoulder and crossing his arms.

Speaking of Cole-

“Where is she anyway?”

“Getting keys to get into Kellog’s house. She gunned him down the first time this happened, and I can’t really think of a reason she shouldn’t do it again.” Valentine said.

Ah, that’s why she was heading up to the Mayor’s office; they must have a spare set of keys for every house in Diamond City. That was...very worrying with McDonough in charge.

“She expecting you back by now?”

“She’s re-stocking supplies before we head out, we have time.” Valentine reassured Deacon, “What’s your name? You have me at a disadvantage here.”

“Jason.” Deacon said with a smile. It dropped from his face as soon as he saw the Detectives incredulous look.

“Sure, what’s you actual name?”

“You know, this lie spotting thing you got going is getting annoying.”

“Comes with the job.” Valentine shrugged.

“Fine. Call me Deacon.” He relented, holding out a hand for the Synth to shake. Valentine took his with his good hand and shook it. They both pulled back, and with a lack of anything better to do he fished out his own cigarette pack of his jean pockets. “So to get us back on topic, getting Cole not to destroy one of the most important factions in the Commonwealth. Any ideas?”

Valentine sighed and sunk back into the seat behind the desk, “About that; I don’t even understand why she would join them after they stole her kid.”

Deacon's world ground to a sudden halt as he blinked down at the Synth, the cigarette he just put in his mouth hanging from from lips. What the hell had he just said? There was _no way_ he’d heard that right.

“What? A kid?”

“You didn’t know?” He asked with a frown, Deacon decided now was good time to take a leaf out of Valentine’s book and fell back into the other chair. “Her kid got kidnapped by the Institute when she was still frozen about ten years ago. From what I know he’s still there.”

It felt like a sheet had been ripped out from under him. Cole had never told him that.

Fuck, of course she betrayed them; they probably threatened her kid.

“I only knew about her husband!” Deacon said, horrified.

“Yeah well, that’s why she wanted into the Institute so badly; she ain’t one for revenge.”

Deacon buried his head in his hands; if he had only known that there was a kid mixed up in this he would _never_ have encouraged Cole to join the Railroad. He’d successfully handed over to Cole every bit of information she would need to bargain her kid back. This was _all his fault._

“...You alright? You reacted to that a bit worse than I thought you would. What happened between you and Cole?” Valentine asked, and Deacon ignored it.

“How are we going to convince her not to side with the Institute now?! They have the only bargaining chip she could want!”

“There has to be something we have to do.” Valentine frowned, and Deacon was grateful he’d dropped his earlier question so quickly, “Could we get her kid back without her having to destroy your organisation?”

There was a twitch of annoyance at Valentine’s terrible attempt at subtly. He’d have to do a search around Diamond City just to make sure there was no one suspicious that could have potentially heard this conversation.

“Either way, she is not getting involved with me and my group of jail-birds this time around,” He saw Valentine start to protest, but he spoke over him quickly, “That doesn’t mean I’m not going to help. For some reason I’ve been dragged into this; I don’t think I could exactly ignore the space-time continuum when its imploding.”

“Fair enough.” Valentine said, nodding, “So what now?”

“Now,” He said, standing from his seat, “We follow, and we observe to watch for something we need to change. Better head out; she probably waiting for you by now. If you need me, I’ll be somewhere in the shadows. Ten points every time you manage to spot me.”

“What do points get me?” Valentine asked, looking vaguely curious with the smallest of grins on his face.

“A surprise!” He said dramatically, throwing a wide smile over his shoulder before opening the creaking door, and stepping out.

As soon as the door closed behind him with a click, his smile dropped into a grim line. He slipped behind the building silently, crouching down at the hole he’d found days ago. He stayed there, listening for any indication that Valentine was contacting the Institute.

After a bit of shuffling, he heard the door open and close, followed by foot-steps leading away from the building.

He followed a few steps behind, watching as the detective climbed steps up to a scattering of houses. He could just see Cole standing outside the furthest door, waiting for the detective.

His shoulders sagged as relief washed over him, and he sunk down onto the dirt. He rested his head on the brick behind him, and let himself breathe.

If Valentine was going to contact the Institute, he would have done it as soon as Deacon’s back was turned. He brought up a hand to his face, picking the dark sunglasses off his face and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

So Cole had a kid. That explained...a lot actually.

Like an idiot, he’d assumed that Cole joined the Railroad to get back at the Institute for murdering her husband. Lots of people’s spouses got killed by them; why would Cole be any different and actually try and do something about it?

She hadn’t, she’d been after her kid all along. All they had been was a convenient stepping stone with a common enemy. And as helpful as that could be in the short run, it also proved to be deadly.

He heaved a sigh and stood, picking up the bag that had slipped off his shoulder. Valentine and Cole would be leaving soon, and he had no idea how long he’d have to follow them. He should do a final check of his supplies before he headed out.

Looking into his bag, he wasn’t completely happy with what he had. The two hundred caps Arturo had given him had run out quickly thanks to Diamond City’s inflated prices. The clothes had especially dried up a lot of it, not to mention the ammo he bought. It wasn’t a lot, but he’d do. If he ran out of bullets, he could use his rifle as a Swatter Bat to knock someone around. Was it appropriate gun safety? No, but it was effective if you managed to sneak up behind someone and bash their head in.

Switching disguises, he headed back to the Dugout to let Vadim know he was leaving Diamond City. After farewells were exchanged, he walked up the stairs and out of the City. He strode over to the buildings across from the tall green walls, pulled out a cigarette and waited.

He was pulling the last drag from the smoke when Cole walked out of the gates with Valentine by her side, keeping his head down and facing away from them. He couldn’t tell if Valentine noticed him, but Cole was oblivious as she drew her gun and held it in front of her as they turned and started to...follow a dog. It raced in front of them, bounding excitedly as it sniffed around.

Deacon blinked in surprise as he watched; he knew a dog had something to do with this, but where the hell had it come from? He hadn’t seen any sign of it when he was inside the city, and no brown streak of fur had rushed into the city when he had exited.

They were moving quickly, and Deacon pushed the thought away as he dropped the filter of his smoke to the ground, stomping it out. He had more important stuff to worry about anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deacon's one true weakness is and always will be insecure Synths thanku for coming to my ted-talk.
> 
> Whooo boy, a good bit of chill after two straight chapters full of death and more death. Also, longest chapter so far at over 11, 700 words. fuckkkken hell why I do this to myself?? And in my defence, Deacon is extremely emotionally compromised/confused/scared/ yadda yadda yadda so I'm defending him letting more truths than he'd usually tell slip. My son's between a rock and a hard place right now and gosh darnit he needs even just the tiniest bit of support.
> 
> Also Takahashi, never change. I love scenes where to protag has a one sided convo with them and I couldn't resist writing one of my own. 
> 
> Here's my tumblr if you wanna check out some of the art i've done for this. Mostly just character designs, but you bet your bottom dollar there's gonna be some cute af nick/deacon art in the near future. http://stresselephant.tumblr.com/
> 
> Also, uploading may slow down. Gonna be moving soon so fun times ahead.


	4. The Stroke That Hits the Vein

The sun had gone down an hour ago, and the dark shadows the moon spilled onto the Wasteland were making him nervous. He shifted uncomfortably, flicking his eyes around the tiny abandoned shack he was settling down in. He felt too exposed; the wall to his right had been torn down, and parts of the roof had collapsed inwards. The hole in the wall gave the impression something had smashed its way inside, leaving a gaping maw for wind to sail through.

Sticking his head out of the torn down wall, he shot his eyes around the radiated landscape to make doubly sure that a super mutant wasn’t going to stumble across him in the next few seconds. There was nothing; except the orange glow from the campfire Cole and Valentine had set up for themselves a few hundred meters in front of him.

A shiver wracked through his body as a gust of wind howled through the small shack, nearly knocking his wig straight from his head. Quickly ducking back behind the wall for some sort of cover and tugging his wig back on, he wrapped his arms tightly around his legs, which he tucked close to his torso.

The temperature had dropped significantly as soon as the sun had gone down, and he cursed at himself for not picking up a jacket in Diamond City.

Deciding against his better judgement, his grabbed the bag he’d dropped next to himself, digging through it until he pulled out his off-white shirt. He shoved his arms into it, wrapping up as much of his exposed skin as he could. If anything jumped out at him, he wouldn’t be able to grab his gun. But fuck he was _cold_.

Another shiver wracked though him, but he resisted the urge to bury his frozen face into his knees. All he had to do was last until the sun rose, and he’d be up and moving. Easy.

Minutes ticked by, and by then prickling numbness was starting to nibble through his shoes and into his toes. His fingers were tucked deep into his armpits, which was only barely helping him keep the feeling in them.

His eyes drifted over to the old rotting wood that was scattered in heaps across the floor. He could start a fire with the debris to keep warm. The rot that clung to the wood would be risky to light on fire, but he could even use parts of the building itself where the panels were a bit healthier. He could rip off pieces of the walls and coax a flame to catch, even if it would be loud taking apart more of his shelter.

But no, the logical part of him was screaming that he shouldn’t. Cole’s and Valentine’s fire was like a beacon; calling all attention to their little spot in the alcove of what looked like a lonely boarded up house. They were in the far west of the Commonwealth; where cover was few and far between, and where some of the deadlier animals of the Wasteland called home. He’d only be asking for trouble. He wasn’t sure what would be worse; if a wandering Scorpion found him, or if Cole woke up in the middle of the night and saw his camp.

He really wasn’t ready to confront her yet.

He leaned his head back onto the rough wall behind him and closed his eyes, trying to mentally block out the creeping iciness that clung to his skin. Maybe he should get some sleep, knock off a bit of time he had to sit here while conscious. Not like it was the first time he’d had to hunker down in the Wasteland.

He let himself sink back further into his wall, letting a out a deep breath as he let his mind wander. Only a couple of minutes had ticked by when the crack of a twig breaking had his eyes snapping back open. He held his breath and stilled completely, listening carefully.

The soft crunching of footsteps kicked him into action. Slowly, he slipped his arms out of the shirt that was winded between them, dropping it to the ground soundlessly as his hand went to the modified laser pistol that was resting next to his hip. He rose to his feet in one fluid movement, and pressed himself into the wall behind him. He bumped his arm against the wall, and a sharp pain in his forearm made him jerk instinctively away. There was a broken nail sticking out of the wood, now covered in blood. He cursed under his breath, and held up an arm to see the damage. There was a long gash bleeding steadily from his inner forearm, pain pulsing with his rapidly beating heart .

He frowned as it started to heal at an unusually slow pace, not nearly as fast as it would have without the cold. He’d have to be careful if this turned into a fight.

The footsteps were becoming louder, and Deacon flicked the safety off his pistol.

“It’s just me, don’t shoot.” A familiar, deep voice broke the silence, and Deacon deflated in relief, slumping over and rubbing his face with the hand that wasn’t clenched around his laser gun.

“You almost gave me a heart attack; I’m far too young and pretty to be getting those.” Deacon complained as Valentine came into view, ducking his head to dodge a part of the ceiling that had caved in. He spared the detective an exasperated look, but Valentine seem unfazed as always. He had his metallic hand clamped firmly over his hat to keep it in place as the wind kicked up his coat, flaring it wildly out to the side.

“Sorry about that, but I didn’t think it was a good idea to shout that I was heading over.” Valentine said with a snarky tone Deacon could easily hear, and he rolled his eyes.

“How’d you know I was here anyway?” He asked, the now familiar feeling of frustration welling up in him. He’d thought he’d hid himself pretty well, all things considered.

“It’s the only place with cover within a mile, I made a guess that paid off.” Valentine grinned with a shrug which only served to frustrate him further, but it dropped quickly from his face as he looked Deacon up and down. Now that the potential threat had passed, his awareness of the cold increased ten-fold. He could keep himself standing straight with an air of cool confidence, but he couldn’t hide the involuntary shivers, “Also figured you’d be getting cold, I couldn’t see a sign of a fire.”

“That was the point of not starting one,” Deacon said with a forced grin, moving his arm so the ugly gash was hidden from the detectives eyes. The fact that the detective was impossibly observant was finally started to truly sink in. No point giving Valentine anything else to poke his nose into, “And more importantly, I thought you were baby sitting little miss genocide over there. What the heck are you doing crashing my party for?”

“Been through this rodeo before, remember? I know nothings going to happen tonight.” Valentine was frowning; Deacon guessed at the ‘genocide’ comment, but he really couldn’t bring himself to care. “Come over to the fire so you don’t catch your death out here.”

Deacon snorted, and sunk back onto the ground, “No thanks, I’m good here. Go make sure Cole doesn’t start killing innocent neighbourhood cats or something.”

“Look,” Valentine said flatly, already starting to sound annoyed, “If you freeze to death out here, I’m going to hazard a guess and say that we’re going to be thrown back to the start of this again. So just come sit next to the fire for a few damn hours so you limbs don’t start falling off.”

Deacon glowered up at the Detective for making sound points; but he knew he wouldn’t die just from some cold air. He stayed stubbornly sitting, crossing his arms as he lent back on the wall. He gave Valentine his cockiest look, and Deacon felt another pang of annoyance when the detective just rose on unimpressed eyebrow.

“Like I said, I’m good. I can’t afford Cole to wake up if I stroll my merry way into her camp. She’ll ask questions, and if she spots me in the future she’ll be like _‘what the hell is that random dude from the campfire doing stalking me around the ‘Wealth!’_ ” He said in a high pitched voice, waving his arms around to emphasise his bad impression, “And honestly, I can’t be bothered to put myself in that position, so it’s a hard no.”

“You’ve travelled with her before, right? She’ll sleep through anything less than a gun shot. And somehow I’m guessing you can be quieter than that.”

He felt his frown harden; he’d only travelled with Cole once, and that was on her first mission to Switchboard. He had reluctantly offered to tag along with her on future outings, and back then he couldn’t be more relieved that she’d turned him down. Not with how busy he was trying to find more safe houses. But from what he’d seen over the course of the trip, Valentine wasn’t wrong. He’d stayed up the entire night to watch as Cole passed out and didn’t get up for the next eight hours.

Just as he opening his mouth the snap back, another gust of icy wind rushed through the small building. It hit him hard, and his muscles tensed up so tightly he felt an ache throb through his body, sending a violent shiver though him. His teeth clacked together momentarily as he forced himself to stop them from chattering, keeping his stubborn eyes locked onto Valentine’s.

The Synth looked more sceptical than ever, crossing his arms and shooting up both his eyebrows.

Deacon refused to be the first to look away, gritting his teeth and tilting his chin up stubbornly. He was still shaking, and the tips of his fingers were starting to get numb. It was getting harder to keep a grip on his gun; he could feel it slip millimetre by millimetre out of his loosening grip as warm blood dripped its way onto his hand.

He really shouldn’t, but he was also _really_ cold.

“Fine,” He muttered quietly, bracing a hand to the ground to push him up-right, “You win this round Valentine, but only because I can’t feel two-thirds of my hands.”

“Glad you’re seeing reason,” He said, stepping back to give room for Deacon to leave the shack after he snatched up his meagre belongings.

Outside the shack was infinitely worse; at least the hovel had some sort of walls to keep the worst of the wind out. His teeth started to chatter despite his best efforts, and for once the tight grip on his gun had next to nothing to do with nerves.

He could instantly feel the difference when they got close. They quietly walked up the wooden steps of the small front porch, and Deacon watched as Valentine settled himself down in front of the boarded up door, leaning his back against the un-even wood.

Deacon stood for a few more beats; the fire a warm temptation to get closer to but with feet planted firmly into the ground. Cole was wrapped in a dirty yellow sleeping bag; she was tucked into the corner of the porch, a safe but warm distance from the fire.

He swallowed hard; this was the closest he’d been to her in weeks without a wall between them. She looked so small; a tuft of dirty blonde hair the only thing sticking out from the bag. To think that this short, pre-war person had enough strength and potential to single-handily destroy everything he cared about.

A coil was wrapping itself around his throat, and he felt his breath go shallow as it tightened. With a dizzying feeling, he realised he was scared of her.

Something smacked down at his feet, making his heart skip as he jumped, staring at what had been thrown at him.

A packet of cigarettes lay innocently by his feet.

“It’s gonna be a long night.” Valentine said, lighting his own cigarette as he gave Deacon a significant look, “Take that as a peace offering. Now sit down so you don’t die of hypothermia.”

He hesitated for a brief second, before snatching up the packet and sinking to the floor. He tried to subtly shift closer to be fire, but by the way Valentine’s eyes were burning into his head he guessed it didn’t go unnoticed.

The shivering hadn’t quite stopped yet; but being next to the fire felt like heaven. He kept his bleeding forearm behind his back as he felt it start to properly stitch itself back together. When nothing but a rapidly fading scar was left, he picked out a cigarette from the packet, he lit it over the fire. If he kept his hand close to he fire longer than was necessary...well, he couldn’t really be blamed for that.

“Where you from?” Valentine asked suddenly. His voice was hushed, but Deacon shot his eyes over to Cole to make sure she hadn’t stirred. She was motionless, so Deacon looked back over to Valentine with a grin. No way he would ever tell Valentine the truth, so he settled for a half-lie.

“Good ol’ Capitol Wasteland,” He said, and started to relax when Valentine didn’t immediately call him out on it, “I’m pretty new to the Commonwealth.”

“All the way from the Capitol, eh? Heard some rumours from travellers about it. There’s a Vault Dweller over there too, right?”

“Yeah, never stopped hearing about them over the radio.” Deacon answered. Valentine was actually looking genuinely curious so he continued, perking up at the chance to weave a story, “Wasn’t really paying attention when they first popped up, only started listening about them as I was on my way out.”

That was after he officially met the infamous Lone Wanderer and started to care about keeping up with their adventures. If there was one thing he truly missed about the Capitol, it was hearing Three Dog gush about them as he’d light his fire and cook his meals under the moonlight. It had become a sort of ritual before he’d finally walked out of the radio’s signal range.

“Better than the Commonwealth?” Valentine asked, making Deacon snort. His mind flashed back to the lake incident early that week.

“The purified water sure is, makes a difference when you can drink the water and not have to worry about your nose falling off.”

“Heard about that. Hard to believe they pulled it off.” Valentine shifted, letting one of his legs stretch out in front of him, “So, why’d you leave?”

“The wind was whispering my name, and who am I to resist the call of adventure? Also, besides the water it kinda sucks.”

“How so?”

“Imagine,” Deacon started, throwing an arm out to dramatically gesture with, “Nothing but brown and grey for the eye to see. Hardly any trees, nothing like the city here. One of the biggest settlements is a hole built out of recovered scraps of metal with a live nuke in the middle of it. Things called Centaurs’ that look _kinda_ human with tentacles hanging out of their mouths and walk with four arms that stick out from their waist.”

Valentine twisted his face in horrified disgust, and Deacon pointed at him nodding furiously.

“Exactly! Horrifying. I’ll give the Commonwealth credit where it’s due though, the mutants here are way harder to kill.”

“Are they? Would have thought Deathclaw’s were universally hard to put down”

Deacon nodded again, “They are. In the Capitol, the Deathclaws only lumber around on two legs. I couldn’t begin to tell you how close I was to shitting myself when a Deathclaw here _bounded_ towards me. I think I saw my life flash before my eyes when I was staring that giant pasty fucker down with my tiny laser pistol.”

A sudden, loud snort escaped the Synths mouth, which he immediately slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle. Valentine’s shoulders shook in suppressed mirth, the detective folding over slightly in an effort to keep quiet. Deacon blinked in open shock, but the detectives laughter soon pulled a smile out of Deacon.

He sat back with a grin, sliding his eyes back over to Cole to make sure Valentine’s struggles hadn’t already woken her. She was as still as the dead, and Deacon brought back his attention to Valentine, who was collecting himself and reeling back his amusement.

Maybe this Nick Valentine guy wasn’t so bad after all.

Valentine cleared his throat and smiled, “Sounds like an issue.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Is it just the Deathclaws or are the other mutants worse as well?”

“ _Everything_.” He groaned quietly, “The Mole Rats were a surprise. Didn’t know they could burrow into the ground and pop up to scare the shit out of you. They also just look _meaner_ , I knew of people in the Capitol who trained them and kept them as pets. Some people think they’re cute, can you believe that?”

“I don’t know, they ain’t that bad for Wasteland standards.” Valentine said with a shrug of a single shoulder. “Let me know when people start training those Centaurs, that’s an ugly I can get behind.”

“If that ever happens, that’s when I know I can hang up my hat and give up hope that humanity will ever recover.” He said with a wince.

The conversation trailed off as Valentine stopped asking questions, leaving silence in it’s wake. Instead, they sat in surprisingly companionable silence as Deacon slowly warmed next to the fire.

...

Valentine had given him the summary of how the confrontation with Kellog had gone down last time. It made him uncomfortable as he paced back and forth a safe distance from Fort Hagen. The dozens of Gen One and Two Synths he knew were in there put him on edge. Kellog was extremely close to the Institute, so it made sense for him to have access to Synths. He was practically treated like a human Courser, and anything that held that title - human or Synth - made him want to turn tail and bolt.

He shouldn’t have let Cole and Valentine go in alone together. Two hours had already passed by now. While he was sure neither of them had died yet - thanks to the Temporal Twists- they could be very easily overwhelmed.

He frowned over at the Fort; he was across the street from the massive red building, crouched behind an abandoned car. He’d done a sweep of the area to make sure there weren’t any lingering Synths outside, but had come up with ultimately nothing. But this is what he was good at; staying still and waiting for something to happen.

There was a creaking from the old wooden doors of the fort, and he ducked down as the front doors swayed open. There was shuffling as people descended the tall steps, and taking a risk he peeked over the edge of the car.

Cole and Valentine were stumbling their way down the stone steps, and a spark of alarm hit him as he saw the state they were in.

Cole was cradling her right arm, which was bruised heavily and bent at an odd angle. Blood was dripping steadily down from her forehead, staining the collar of her shirt that was tucked under her armour. Valentine didn’t look any better, and was limping heavily with an arm curled around his middle. He was sure there were other injuries that he couldn’t see, on both Cole and Nick.

He couldn’t help but wonder if they’d come out in this state the first time around, or if things had somehow gone worse.

All he could do was follow them from a distance as they made their way through the Wastes. They stopped for more breaks than they had getting there, and it took them a week of straight walking to limp their way to Goodneighbour. Cole was looking like she was getting closer and closer to collapsing in exhaustion, and finally Valentine took it upon himself to sling her good arm over his shoulder and drag her through the Boston Commons.

When they hit the area surrounding the Swann, he finally gave in and jogged up to the detective. With a glance, he could tell Cole was out cold, and panic shot through him as he took her weight away from Valentine; who was looking ready to crumple to the ground himself.

“What happened?!” He whispered furiously as he pulled the woman past one of the most dangerous mutant in the Wasteland. Valentine was directly at his heels, more than happy to give up Cole to him. Her face was slack and dirty with dust, and he felt his chest start to bleed with resentment. He had to make sure she stayed alive.

“It went better than the first time.” The detective whispered back, shooting a glance over to the lake. Deacon took a glance of his own; the lake was still. The only thing that hinted at the Swanns presence was a off-white plastic bird that jutted up from the green water. They’d be fine as long as they made it to the other side of the Commons.

Cole was heavy in his arms, and instead of dragging them he scooped a hand under their legs with a puff of air, picking up his pace while she hung in his arms. He didn’t look back to see if Valentine was keeping up; the sooner they got out of the danger zone the better.

When they finally reached the edge of the surrounding buildings, he relaxed enough to finally shoot a glance over to the Synth. He’d kept up, standing right at his elbow and grimacing when he accidentally put weight on the leg he was limping on. Deacon looked the detective up and down with a sceptical eye.

“You got someone to patch you up?” He asked, eyes catching on the dark blue and red stains on the Synth. His whole pant leg was covered in the blue, inky substance, and he could see it start to peek through the tan coat around his torso where his belt was tied loosely. He didn’t know what the blue stains were, but he could easily identify the red as human blood. Whether it belonged to Cole or Kellog, he couldn’t tell.

“Amari owes me a favour.” He answered, and Deacon’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Amari knew Valentine and hadn’t told the Railroad about him? That didn’t sit quite right with Deacon, but he shoved it to the side to usher the two people into Goodneighbour.

By some marvellous stroke of luck, they didn’t run into anything that wanted them dead on the way. The glowing sign was like a balm to Deacon’s anxiousness. All they had to do was get their hands on a Stimpack and Cole would stay alive and kicking.

Goodneighbour was grungy as always, the dark, dirty streets casting shadows that any criminal could take advantage of. Valentine limped past him and Deacon went to set Cole down on one of the benches near the entrance. It didn’t take long for Valentine to come back with a Stimpack in hand.

“And this is my cue. I’ll see you in the Memory Den.” Deacon said with a pat of the Synth’s shoulder. He melted into the shadows, not looking back. If Stimpack didn’t help Cole recover, he’d know about it soon enough.

Keeping the stenson hat tugged over his eyes, he made his way through the street. The only people hanging around were guards, who ignored him as he hurried past. Slipping into the Memory Den, he silently paid Irma his remaining caps. She was looking at him curiously as she tried to get a glimpse under his hat, but he turned quickly and climbed into the memory stasis pod closest to the entrance.

He didn’t activate it. It wasn’t like there were memories he wanted to play back anyway. Instead, he closed his eyes, keeping his other senses stretched and waiting. Valentine and Cole would be through here soon to hook up the piece of Kellog’s brain to Valentine. He hadn’t really understood what Valentine had explained to him. The idea that someone could enter and view someone else’s memories, even if they were saved on some kind of synthetic memory storage device, was completely alien to him. The more time he spent with Valentine, the more he was starting to realise he really didn’t know anything about the Institute or Synths.

The door opened again twenty minutes later, long after Deacon had gotten bored and started to recite songs in his head. He stilled as soon as he heard voices, and listened closely.

“-you sure she’ll be able to help?” Cole asked. They were close to the pod that Deacon was laying in, and Deacon had to hold back a sigh of relief that she hadn’t been hurt enough to put her out of commission for an extended period of time.

“If I know anyone who could hack into a cyborgs brain, it’d be Doctor Amari. She’s been helping with my tune-ups for years now.” Valentine answered, their voices becoming faint as they passed Deacon. He settled himself in further for more waiting.

...

Deacon almost jumped when the sound of three sharp knocks vibrated around the pod. Squinting an eye open to check who it was, he was looking up at a very unimpressed and less injured Nick Valentine.

He opened his eyes fully, sticking his tongue out childishly at the Synth. It only pulled a grin from the detective. If he wanted to go around judging the places Deacon decided to hide, then he could go sit on a razorgrain plant.

Valentine backed off, and Deacon turned his head to watch him retreat to stand next to the entrance to wait for Cole. He closed his eyes again, and counted the seconds as they went by.

They didn’t have to wait too long, Cole’s footsteps were loud enough to be heard through the memory pod.

“Hey Nick, you ready to go?” Cole asked. He almost frowned at the tone of her voice. She sounded tired; a bone deep exhaustion escaping through her voice. What had she seen in that memory trip she took? He couldn’t imagine strolling through the memories of the man who killed her husband and stole her kid would be very relaxing. She did just take a Stimpack after being unconscious; she was probably desperate for some water.

There were a few seconds of silence, and he felt a spike of concern when Valentine didn’t respond immediately. Had he noticed how tired Cole looked? He was probably just trying to decide if they should rent a room at-

“Hope you got what you were looking for inside my head. Heh, I was right. Should have killed you when you were on ice.”

The deep, guttural voice that answered froze Deacon down to the core. He’d never been close enough to Kellog in person to hear him speak, but he could guess that the man would have sounded exactly like that.

What the _hell_?!

He squinted an eye open again; Cole stood as frozen as he felt, with an expression of absolute horror on her face. She was staring at Nick; he could see the way her back tensed and coiled ready to run or fight. With a building feeling of dread in his throat he turned his gaze to Nick.

Any sign that Nick had just spoke with Kellogs voice was gone. The Synth just looked deeply confused at Cole expression.

“...Nick?” Cole’s voice was shaking, and she took a sharp step backwards as Nick stood up from the red couch he was sitting on.

“What’s wrong kid? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Deacon couldn’t tell if the detective was joking or not, but that was a horrible choice of words. Cole seemed to agree with him as she took more steps back.

“You...you’re joking, right?!” Her voice had gone up a notch with her fear, “That’s not cool, Nick.”

“What are you talking about?” Valentine asked, frowning hard. Concern flooded over his face when Cole stepped around him and ran for the door, wrenching it open. She paused, hesitating as she looked back at the detective.

“I don’t want to travel with you anymore, okay? Leave me alone.” With that, Cole bolted out of the building.

Deacon couldn’t find a reason to fault her for that as he struggled out of the pod, the glass case hissing open as he sat up and quickly swung his legs over the edge. He stared at Valentine with wide, panicked eyes as he stood up.

“What was _that_?!” Deacon almost shouted, turning it into a hissed whisper.

“What was what?” Valentine asked, looking defensive. “The kid just ran off.”

All Deacon could do was blink for a few moments at the other man as he struggled to vocalise his spinning thoughts.

“Are you _kidding_ me?! You just got possessed by the ghost of bad-shit past, or something!” This time he did shout, eyes scanning the Synths face for any type of deception. He ignored Irma, who was looking over at them with a concerned frown. Valentine just looked annoyed, cocking his head to the side as he glowered at Deacon.

“If this is another one of your jokes, this is the worst one so far.” Valentine bit, crossing his arms and levelling a glare at him.

Deacon choked on his utter disbelief. Of course. _Of course_ this would happen to him. He shook his head as he stared back at Valentine, who looked just as indignant as before. He waited a few beats for a smile to cross the others face with a ‘ha, got you!’ but nothing came.

Cole was god knows where, but they had to get this sorted now. If Kellog’s consciousness had somehow stayed in Valentine’s processors he could be listening in on them _right now_.

He reached forward, grabbing Valentine’s arm in a tight grip before turning and marching back to Amari. He ignored Valentine’s surprised ‘hey!’, yanking the detective behind him as he practically ran down the steps to Amari’s lab.

The doctor looked up, eyebrows shooting up in surprise when she saw them enter. She looked pristine as always, her short cropped hair brushed away out of her eyes.

“Deacon, Nick, what are you-”

He pulled the detective in front of him, making Valentine stumble slightly as Deacon misjudged the strength he put into it in his panic.

“ _This_ guy just channelled our favourite Institute agent.” Deacon exclaimed, throwing both hands up towards Valentine.

“Deacon what the hell are you-”

“Hm,” Amari cut off the indignant detective off, looking the Synth up and down, “I did think there might be some side effects. Come, Mr Valentine, let’s make sure it’s not anything too serious.”

The doctor grabbed Valentine by the shoulders, steering him to a seat in the centre on the room. She sat him down, and by his expression Deacon could guess he was starting to have his doubts about the situation. He looked back at Deacon, now with wide eyes. It wasn’t hard to spot the first signs of cautious unease in them.

“When you say I ‘channelled’-”

“I mean _his_ voice just came out of _your_ mouth and threatened Cole.” Deacon answered. He saw Valentine swallow hard, even though he was sure the Synth didn’t produce any saliva to swallow.

“I don’t-” The detective startled as Amari came up behind him. She had a long chord leading to a terminal she wheeled out on a stand. She touched Valentine's neck, out of Deacon’s direct line of sight so he couldn’t tell exactly what she was doing, and plugged in the chord. “I don’t remember.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, and remained silent as he watched Amari hustle over to her terminal. She rapidly punched something into the keyboards, her frown deepening as time ticked on.

“I don’t see anything that suggests another presence.” She stated, still staring down at the terminal with an air of concern, “Most likely it was just his code adjusting to the swarm of new memories that were downloaded into his memory banks.”

“But he sounded like he knew exactly what was going on. He spoke to Cole directly.” Deacon stressed, coming around to look at the terminal. The code that was on the screen only made the barest of sense to him, and he gave up on trying to read through it. It was much too complicated for Deacon to gain anything from it.

“Yes, I’m not surprised. Technically it was still Nick who spoke, his code just had a ‘hiccup’, of sorts.”Amari said with a firm, confident nod. Deacon was slowly loosing the tension that had tightened in his shoulders. If anyone knew what they were talking about, it was Amari. Still, he glanced back at Valentine with a healthy amount of concern. The Synth didn’t look any better than he felt; he looked horrified.

Deacon could sympathise. Realising you had gaps in your memories was never a pleasant experience. He thought back to when he’d gotten his memories back all those years ago, but with key moments missing in his past thanks to the Institute’s fail-safe that had kicked in.

Knowing that someone had the power to just delete his memories like that without his permission was frightening.

Valentine was sitting with his shoulders slightly slumped as he looked helplessly up at him. Seeing the normally confident detective look like that threw him off somewhat. He was so use to Valentine’s attitude by now that seeing him intimidated and shaken made a blossom of uncertainty bloom in his own chest.

“Well,” He said loudly, braking through the silence that had stretched in the small space of the lab, “Cole’s gone. Any idea where she’s heading?”

“The girl said she was going into the Glowing Sea.” The doctor said to the room, and Deacon choked for the second time that day, looking back and forth between her and Valentine.

“What, _alone?”_ He asked, and Valentine seemed to snap out of whatever deep thoughts he was struggling through. He straightened his back, his eyes steeling.

“I’ll tell you what I know later,” He said, glancing over at Amari. Good call, if she heard them talk about ‘what Cole did last time’ he wouldn’t be surprised to find himself strapped down and having his head examined. Not a great idea, because the doctor would find much more than a human brain.

“Don’t think about going anywhere until you check in with Desdemona,” Amari stepped in, looking between Valentine and Deacon. He could see the slight suspicion in her eyes at their vague answer, “Runner’s have been coming in here almost every day asking if I’ve seen you, it’s getting annoying. I don’t think she’s pleased with your radio silence.”

Deacon winced, sparing a glance over at Valentine. Well, now the Synth knew that Amari was part of the Railroad. He level a frustrated glare at the doctor.

“Does no one understand that we’re a covert operation?” He said slightly desperately, which just got a look from Amari, “You know, undercover? I can give you more synonyms if that helps. Hidden, surreptitious, _incognito-_ ”

“I wasn’t the one yelling about Institute spies when you burst in,” Amari interrupted him. Okay, so she had a point there, “I don’t see how Mr Valentine would have taken that any other way than I was connected to the Railroad somehow.”

He grimaced, shrinking back at bit from the woman. He should really stop putting his foot in his mouth around Amari; he’d almost forgotten that she could match him when he’d start going on his rants.

“Sorry, Amari.”

“That’s alright Deacon, I’m familiar with your attitude by now.” She snipped - and ouch that one hurt - before giving him a small, teasing smile. “But if you don’t go straight to Desdemona after this, I will tell her you ignored me when I told you she wanted a report.”

“You’re evil.” Deacon grumbled, not really meaning it. He knew Railroad business would catch up to him sooner than later. But Cole was going into the Glowing Sea, and he didn’t completely trust Valentine to follow her alone. “If you’re giving the good detective the all clear, we better go.”

“...What are you two up to?” She finally asked, looking towards Valentine questioningly.

He cut off Valentine before he could answer.

“We’re starting a business! Do you want a pet Mole Rat, Amari? We’re gonna start selling them to everyone in the Commonwealth, they make great companions.”

“I’ll have to refrain, I’m afraid.” She said, and Deacon grinned when he saw the amusement spark in her eyes. She might be snippy at times, but she always seemed to forgive him easily enough.

With that, they took their leave. Deacon nodded towards the Third Rail as they got outside, and they walked inside with a nod to the guard. He seemed to recognise Valentine, and Deacon perked up when they were allowed to walk in with their weapons still strapped to them. That was unusual for the Third Rail, and Deacon chanced a glance at Valentine. Just how many people around the Commonwealth had the Synths charmed into trusting him? First Amari, and now apparently John Hancock, mayor of Goodneighbour. There was no other reason why they’d be let in with guns strapped to their backs and belts.

Valentine led him to the V.I.P room, crossing the bar quickly and ignoring the bustle of the crowded area. Dozens of people were shouting and swinging around water-weak beer. Unfortunately, Magnolia wasn’t performing just yet, and he shot a look of disappointment towards the stage. She always sung songs that weren’t on the radio, and Deacon could appreciate the change of pace. He’d never come down to the bar often enough to hear her get through a full song, which was one of his biggest regrets. Priorities be damned.

There was a couple inside the private room getting very friendly with each other, but as soon as they saw Nick they cleared out of the room quickly, shooting wide eyed looks at the Synth as they passed.

“Take a picture, it lasts longer.” Valentine snapped, and that was enough for them to avert the gaze and close the door behind them.

They were left alone in the small room, and the silence stretched uncomfortably between them. Valentine was the first to move; he heaved a weary sigh before sinking down on the couch. Deacon followed, flopping down next to him as they stared off into nothing.

Deacon cleared his throat, shooting a look over at the detective. Valentine had tugged out a cigarette from his pocked, and lit it. The smell of burning tobacco surrounded Deacon, making his own need for one tug at him.

“So, the Glowing Sea.” Deacon started. He could feel Valentine relax next to him as he neatly skipped over the topic of Kellog. From what he’d gathered, it must have been the same reason why Cole had ditched the detective the first time around. She was -without a doubt- scared.

“She took Hancock with her last time.” Valentine frowned down at the smoke he was holding in his metal hand, “But we’re in front of schedule this time. She hasn’t had the chance to meet him, I don’t think she’s going with him this time.”

“How’d she meet him?” He asked.

“When we got to Goodneighbour this clown decided to threaten us. Hancock came in and gutted the guy.”

“A clown, eh?” Deacon grinned, not able to help himself, “Like those painted guys on the side of old the cereal boxes you sometimes find? That must have been interesting.”

Valentine snorted softly, “Not quite. Think more towards general Goodneighbour thug.”

“Right,” Deacon nodded, “So what’s our time frame before Cole throws herself into the Sea and gets herself killed?”

“I’m not sure,” Valentine frowned, twirling the smoke between his metal fingers. Deacon watched, slightly impressed, as the thin cylinder was weaved expertly through them, “She would know not to go in without any protection against the radiation, and if she does the Geiger counter on her pip-boy will let her know that she should clear out. She’ll need to get supplies; so I’ll say we have a couple of days.”

“Okay, I can work with that.” Deacon sighed. They’d have to catch up with her at the Sea; and he’d have to get some rad-away to take. With his lack of disposable caps, his only option was to head back to HQ. He’d be able to get the supplies he needed from there, but that also meant facing Desdemona’s wrath at not contacting her for over three weeks. “I need to take care of some business before we head out.”

“Desdemona’s your leader, then?” Valentine asked, looking over at Deacon curiously. Deacon had to resist clenching his jaw at the look, and scoffed.

“Desdemona, _my_ leader? Don’t make me laugh, detective.” He said with a grin, “She’s just a rookie who likes to think she’s got authority.”

Valentine was looking at him him raised eyebrows, and it was obvious the other man didn’t believe him.

“Then why is she the one sending ‘runners’, whatever they are?”

“Newbies always deal with sending messages,” He said, waving the question off, “Our actual leader is way too busy to be dealing with runners.”

“Sure, Deacon.” Valentine said tiredly. He turned to fully look at Deacon, cocking his head to the side as if he was evaluating him. Deacon was quickly finding that he hated it when Valentine did that, “Why do you lie so much? The truth always comes out in the end.”

“I’ve never lied a day in my life! The nerve.” Deacon lied with mock offence, bringing a hand up to his chest as if the very idea shocked and appalled him.

A grin was tugging at the edges of Valentine’s mouth, “I’ll believe that when Deathclaws start flying.”

“Don’t tempt them, who knows what radiation will do next? If they suddenly sprout wings because you put the idea out into the universe I’m blaming you. After I find a deep hole to bury myself in to stay away from the freaking flying Deathclaws, that is.”

Valentine huffled out a weak laugh, before leaning over to the edge of the couch to butt out the cigarette in the tall ash tray standing next to it.

“Do you want to meet up in Diamond City or at the Sea?” Valentine asked, and Deacon hesitated a moment.

“I’ll meet you at Diamond City.” He said after a pause. Standing up from the couch, he spun back around to face the detective. He needed to be gone as soon as possible if he wanted to talk Dez into giving him some freedom to break away from his main mission. “While this has been a very interesting day detective, I must be off. Hopefully I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”

“I would have thought your people would want you around for the next couple of days; whatever your job is it sounded important.” Valentine frowned, tilting his head in question.

Deacon hid a frown with a smile and a wink, “Not important at all; I’m just annoying enough to get attention. And I’ll think of something.”

He turned and left Valentine sitting there. The detective didn’t say anything as he opened the door and stepped out. Bypassing the bar again, he trotted up the steps and nodded to the guard in farewell. Before he knew it, he was outside the walls of Goodneighbour and on his way east to HQ. Every step he took brought him closer, and he could feel his fear slowly start to turn from a simmer to a boil.

He tried to block out the thoughts that were doing their best to invade his mind. He clenched his fists as he moved silently through Boston; he’d be fine. He had to be fine.

All too quickly, he has standing outside Old North Church. For the first time the building was intimidating to him. The angles now looked sharper, and it felt like the church stood taller than it ever had before. It loomed down over him, making the dread in his chest climb into his throat.

Clearing it, he doubled back just to make sure no one was following him. When he deemed to it be clear, he creaked open the door, crouching as he stalked his way inside.

The noise from the feral Ghouls that were shuffling around caught his attention, and he pressed his back against the second entrance ahead of him that led into the church. Glancing over at their unconventional defence system, he watched as a Roamer stumbled its way into the back of church. It was the only one awake; the rest were curled up in balls and laying so still that it was easy to mistake them as dead. When he was confident it wouldn’t see him, he edged his way around the corner.

He made it to the start of the stairwell that led down into the basement. He softly closed the door behind him, making a quick detour to make sure that the first aid kit nailed to the wall was stocked. When he confirmed to himself there was still Stimpacks ready for the next desperate agent, he firmly told himself to stop stalling and actually walk down the stairs.

He took them slowly to keep the noise down, and made his way through the start of the catacombs. Weaving his way through the cleared passage way, he made it to the door.

He put the password into the rotating puzzle; and the brick slid open with a groan. He stepped through, walked down the steps, and stopped when the green door was directly in front of him.

He took a deep breath. Maybe Glory wouldn’t be here; she was out on missions all the time before-

Before he watched her die.

His hand wavered over the door knob. He couldn’t help but see the picture of everyone’s corpses in his minds eye. He’d watched them all die just over three weeks ago, and no matter how hard he tried to block the images of blood and a power armour suit they still floated to the front of his mind.

But they weren’t dead, Deacon’s feeling didn’t matter anymore.

His hand closed around the handle and he twisted it. The door swung open and he stepped inside. Closing the door behind him, he took a steadying breath before walking down the steps.

HQ was cluttered as always, but much less crowded than it had been when he’d last been here. He swept his gaze around their small base. They landed on Desdemona, who was standing in the back next to the chalkboard, looking at the list of their remaining safe houses.

The rush of joyful relief that crashed into him was indescribable. He’d known that she was still alive since he woke up to Butcher Pete weeks ago, but seeing it with his own eyes calmed a roaring pain that had been scratching away at him.

“There you are, you dork! You almost had me worried about you.” A familiar scoffing voice caught his attention, and he felt his stomach drop out under him. Turning his head slowly with a sick feeling building, he blinked at the owner of the voice.

Glory was leaning against a brick pillar, looking at total ease with the world as she grinned at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cut to me a week ago, dragging all my shit from Sydney and back in my tiny car. I pull up my laptop after a long trip, and find 2000 words from this chapter had been deleted. I die. So sad leik and subscrybe if u cried. 
> 
> Finally, Glory is here! I cannot truely express my anger and sadness when she died, she's one of the best characters in fallout, i felt robbed when they just killed her off.
> 
> I'm having a lot of fun writing dialogue between Nick and Deacon, and in case you're wondering yES NICK IS CHARMED BY DEACON ALMOST INSTANTLY LEAVE ME TO MY SHIPPING HELL. Protect him Nick, my boy needs it. 
> 
> Is this fic going to turn into a thing where I address all the weird ass shit that happened once and then was never brought up in the game again? Just maybe. Looking at you Nick, with your creepy ass Kellog voice. In my first play through of the game I almost ditched him after that, don't blame you for running Cole. 
> 
> (Life hack to get Deacon to like you: laugh at his probably fake stories)
> 
> Also, may I interest yall in some art for this fic? Check out my tumblr here: http://stresselephant.tumblr.com/post/176488355555/get-yourself-a-man-wholl-kiss-you-even-when


	5. The Hemorrhage None Can Staunch

Deacon’s mouth worked open and closed to try and strangle out some words, but his voice felt like it was trapped at the bottom of his throat. His muscles went rigid under Glory’s teasing eyes, which looked him up and down. It startled him out of his shock enough to realise she was searching him for injury, and he flicked his eyes over the woman to do the same. 

More specifically, he was checking for bullet holes.

She looked identical to how she had before she died, of course, but Deacon for some reason was expecting something different. Her silver hair was still brushed over the side of her head, framing her sharp face as she grinned at him.

There were splotches of mud and blood splattered across her face and clothes, and she had the signature exhausted slump in her shoulders every agent felt when they had just gotten back from a mission.

“Did you forget how to speak in the last three weeks, or what?” She asked, and the achingly familiar teasing smile that tugged at her mouth sent a crushing weight into his chest. 

He blinked dumbly at her, and felt a wave of something like panic when she looked at him expectantly for a response. Any response that his scrambling brain could think of slipped away before he could even begin to get them out. His stomach twitched as his vision narrowed, sending everything around him into a sharp focus. Something rose into his throat that he was sure wasn't a cheeky quip, his mind grinding to a complete halt and going blank.

Something snapped.

Demented laughter bubbled out of him before he realised what he was doing. 

His lungs stung as he wheezed, feeling himself double over without fully registering it, grabbing onto his knees with white knuckles as his laughter rolled uncontrollably from him. 

“Wasn’t that funny, Dee.” He could hear the frown in her voice without having to look up. Clenching his jaw and locking his lips together did nothing to staunch the snort before cackles shook through him as he looked back up at the woman through teary eyes. 

Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, something was telling him this wasn’t normal. He ignored it.

“H- Hey Glory!” He said, strangling out the words, “You’re looking better.”

“Uh, what?” It was rare to see Glory caught completely off guard, and the sight sent him into another wave of gasping laughter.

He could barely pull the strength to raise a shaking arm and wave off the question, slapping it back on his knee as he wobbled dangerously as his balance was thrown off.

“Ohh-kay. How long has it been since you slept, tough guy?” He wasn’t sure when Glory had moved, and he jumped when her legs came into his field of vision. He felt a hand land on his back, pushing him gently. God, his stomach  _burned_.

He clutched at it as he guffawed, pulling sharply away from Glory’s hand.

“I-I’m good! Nothing wrong here!” Cackling, he pushed a hand under his dark lenses to wipe away the tears of laughter that were wetting his cheeks. He flicked his hand - more for the dramatic flair - throwing the salty tears to the floor.

He fumbled around blindly for a wall. His hand hit bricks, and he felt around before falling onto it and leaning his shaking body against it.

He managed to look up at Glory again as he started to stifle the laughter, leaving him with what he was sure was an deranged grin splitting across his face.

“Whew! Long time, no see.” He snickered to himself. On her part, Glory just looked confused and more than a little concerned.

Ah, good ‘ol Glory. Always looking out for their little fucked up family.

“What the fuck just happened.” She said loudly, and Deacon had to choke back another bout of giggles that built up in his chest.

He looked up around at HQ instead of answering. Carrington was staring at him like he had sprouted a second head from behind his current patient. He recognised agent Sonny sitting on his medical table, also looking at Deacon with wide eyes. His attention was abruptly stolen away when Carrignton noticed and took advantage of the distraction, stabbing a med-x needle into Sonny’s torn up leg.

He let the shriek of pain and curses fade into the background as he looked around at the others.

Tinker was the only other agent he cared about seeing right now, and the Inventor looked to be neck deep in code. He was typing away frantically at his terminal; he hadn’t even taken notice of Deacon.

His grin widened to the point of aching pain. He could always count on Tinker to ignore him when it counted.

He finally allowed himself to look over at Desdemona again. She was staring unblinkingly at him with an expression of carefully hidden alarm. He gave her a energetic wave and a wink, and he felt a swell of satisfaction when she frowned in annoyance.

“Deacon, get your ass over here!” She shouted, crossing her arms across her chest and levelling him with an unimpressed glare. She looked ready to kill him, and he couldn't really blame her. He was way overdue to check in; any other agent would have been written off as dead by now. As annoying as finding out she was sending Runners asking for his where-abouts was, he couldn't stop the warm feeling in his chest knowing that Dez had enough faith in his abilities to believe he was alive. 

She was also the perfect excuse to ditch a certain someone. 

He trotted away, ignoring Glory’s _“Wait, Dee-”_ as he almost skipped over to their waiting leader. Her glare got darker and darker, until he was standing directly in front of her.

God, he could reach out and touch her. She’d be there, breathing and _alive_.

He barked out another demented laugh before he stifled it with a fist over his mouth.

Dear lord he was fucked up.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dez growled, straightening up to her full height as her angry eyes tried to cut into him. “Care to explain why I had to get information from the radio about the Vault Dweller, before I got it from my agent?!”

“Well, staying in contact becomes a little difficult to do when I’m following said Vault Dweller across the ‘Wealth.” He said with a hazy grin, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Desdemona’s eyebrow twitched, and behind the fog that was making everything incredibly funny, he identified that as a bad thing.

“Why is it, when there’s a problem, it always comes back to _you_.”

His mind happily supplied him with images of a Power Suit and gun. She wasn't wrong; when there was a problem it did usually come back to him. Cole was just the most extreme example; he knew he was at least partially responsible for Switchboard's attack. Being the head of security was a double edge sword; everyone's welfare was his responsibility the moment he'd taken up Desdemona's offer years ago. He expected that to hurt, but he just smothered another snicker when he found the words washed harmlessly over him.

“Hear me out Dez; the Vault Dweller is bad news. Like, worse news than when Blamco finally started going out of date. And you know how much I love Blamco,” He said with an easy laugh. This was great, why hadn’t he gone off the deep end years ago? “I can’t let her near us, it’ll turn out worse than Switchboard did.”

That got Desdemona to back away a couple of steps, and he watched curiously as her glare softened with an edge of concern. A flickering of emotions crossed her face that he was too slow to read, so Deacon just rocked on his heels and waited for her to respond.

“She sounds like a problem.” She finally said with a careful tone, and Deacon hummed in agreement, “Are they in contact with the Institute?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure as hell she will be. And when she does, we can kiss our cheeks goodbye. Maybe even grab some snacks to sit back and enjoy when they set a legion of Coursers down on us.”

“You think she’d capable of doing that?”

“More than capable, Dez.” He answered, “If she gets wind that we exist she’s one of our biggest threats.”

“So, we kill her.” Desdemona said with a confident nod.

_No!_

A lace of fear shot through him, cutting right through the comforting fog that had settled over his mind. He felt slightly mournful as it faded away, and reality punched into him. His grin settled into a familiar forced, wide smile.

“No can do.” He said, trying not to sound strangled. Doing some quick thinking, he blurted out the next excuse he thought of, “The Institute’s got their eyes on her too, if we come out and kill her they’ll be able to identify our agents.”

Desdemona only looked half convinced at that, and she moved her eyes away from him to glare in thought. She seemed to be considering his point, and he silently prayed his first point wouldn’t be brushed away. He really should have prepared for this more, but there always was a thrill with coming up with lies on the spot.

“So, what do you suggest we do?”

He almost deflated in relief, covering it with a roll of his shoulders. It was good to know she still trusted his judgement. No matter how terrible he’d recently discovered that so called ‘talent’ was.

If she was actually thinking over his ideas, that was half the battle already won.

“I just need to keep her off our tail. Keep doing what I’ve been doing, and try and steer her away from the Institute.” It was a weak plan, and Desdemona seemed inclined to agree with his doubts by the incredulous look on her face.

He waited with held breath as Desdemona came to a decision. If she decided to kill Cole, nothing would stop that from happening, even if Deacon refused. She’d just send Glory or some of their other heavies to hunt her down.

And as much as he wanted to keep her alive, he couldn’t exactly defy a direct order from Dez.

“How do you know she’s such a big threat?” Desdemona finally asked after a long pause. Deacon stalled, shrugging as he tried to think of something at least halfway decent.

“It’s the impression she gives.” He said, wincing to himself. That was an incredibly lame reasoning to give, but it just made Dez’s eyes soften further. He had to stop himself from frowning in confusion at her reaction.

“Okay. We’ll do it your way, you’ve never been wrong about a person before.” She said, and Deacon felt his stomach drop for the second time that day, “But at least let us know if you find a place we can clear out for a safe house. I don’t have to stress to you how badly we need more of them.”

His eyes glanced over to the blackboards set up behind Dez, where only a few of their safe houses remained. Allen and Herkimer were crossed out in white chalk, taken down in the attack on Switchboard.

Randolf and Augusta had question marks drawn next to them, but Deacon knew that Augusta was long gone. They’d never figured out if Randolf was still alive in the past timeline, and he doubted he’d have enough resources to investigate this time around either.

Yes, she didn’t have to stress to him their desperate need to replace those four safe houses.

He looked back to Desdemona, and gave her a nod. That seemed to satisfy her enough, but she paused before she turned away to dismiss him.

“Oh, and Deacon? Pull that disappearing shit again, and I’ll make sure you only ever work from inside HQ for a year.” She said, and he swallowed nervously at the threatening glint in her eye. “Stay in contact. I like knowing when my best agents are alive.”

With that, she turned away. He watched as she made her way towards Carrington, who was stitching up Sonny’s cut open leg. She whispered something to him, and the doctor’s eyes shot up to him. Deacon gave a cheerful wave, which Carrington just rolled his eyes at and went back to work.

Now with nothing desperately pressing to do - and a certain person he was determined to ignore - he again scanned the crowd for Tinker. He perked up when he saw the man still hunched over his desk, quickly typing away at his terminal.

He gave a wide berth around Glory as he made his way to Tom, keeping an eye on her as he went. She was still hanging around the entrance, chatting with Drummer Boy as he sorted through a stack of paper.

She looked up at him and caught his eyes, and his heart thumped painfully before he remembered he had his glasses. He averted his eyes in front of him, pretending not to notice.

Tinker looked the same as always, the goggles on his head slipping slightly down into his eyes. The inventor ignored it in favour of staring at his screen, and Deacon almost jumped up to sit on his desk. He stopped himself when the deja vu hit him, feeling a bubble of discomfort at the idea of sitting exactly where he had before the attack. Instead, he leaned his hip against it and gave a winning smile.

“Hey Tom, what’s crackin'?” He asked, looking curiously over at the lines of code Tinker was sorting through. It was a little more legible than Valentine’s code had been, and he found himself recognising that it belonged to a Gen Three Synth. Frowning, he tilted his head to see what the computer was plugged up to. A Synth component lay on the desk, a string of mutilated wires connecting it to the monitor. He curled his nose up in distaste seeing the component - part of a persons brain - just sitting there, but he pushed away his discomfort. 

“Not this component, lemme tell you.” Tinker whined, not taking his eyes off the screen, “This is the third one this week that I’ve tried, but the damn fail safe just won’t let me in!”

As if the component heard him, the little electronic started to smoke and hiss alarmingly. Tinker cursed under his breath, and Deacon sent an alarmed look between Tom and it.

“Uh, is it suppose to be doing that?” He asked, inching away from the acidic smell as the component sparked.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Tinker shouted, ignoring Deacon completely in favour of the screen, “I got you, just-”

There was a popping noise, and Deacon threw up an arm to cover his eyes as the component over-heated and exploded. Shrapnel cut across his forearm as he stumbled back in shock.

He dropped his arm to look frantically at Tinker, who’d thrown his own bleeding arms up in frustration.

“That’s the third one that’s exploded! I don’t get it, I don’t know what I’m doing to make it do that!” Tinker ranted, and Deacon inched closer to pat his back.

“Hey man, head over to Carrington and get that looked at.” He said as he carefully twisted his body to block the view of his own arms healing over the small cuts.

“I’m all good, Dee.” Tinker waved him off even as Deacon pushed him towards to doctor. He was too well versed in the process to even try and talk Tinker into willingly seeing the doctor.

“Hey Carrington!” He called over the catacombs, making the doctor look up at them, “Had another explosion incident.”

“Are both of you hurt?” He called back, stepping away from the agent he just finished wrapping in bandages cannibalised from old shirts.

“Just Tinker.” He answered as Carrington walked in front of them, grabbing Tinker's arms to have a look at them while Tom complained loudly.

“I don’t know how you manage to dodge the shrapnel every time, Deacon.” Carrington said, shaking his head in disbelief as he took Tinker from him and dragged him over to his work station.

“I’m just that awesome.” He said with a shrug and a grin, waving off a still bleeding and complaining Tom. Carrington only snorted in clear scepticism, turning his full attention to Tom.

Turning on his heel, he hurried past Tinker’s desk and into the shooting range Glory had set up to train the newest agents. Not that the people they allowed into HQ were bad shots, but it would be a lie to suggest only he was the cautious one in their group. They all had their little hang-ups, and Glory’s happened to be that she was unable to trust that anyone new could aim a gun straight.

The woman herself was still hanging around the front entrance, and out of the corner of his eye he could see her staring at him. Whatever she’d been talking to Drummer Boy about, had apparently ended. He knew the look she was giving him all too well; she wanted to trap him into a conversation and grill him for information.

Well, jokes on her. She can’t corner him if he didn’t get near her.

He could go through the back entrance, but he was sure that would just raise Glory’s suspicion that he was avoiding her. No need to do that, he didn’t know how many times he’d have to come back and face her after this. He wasn't too excited at the prospect of being hunted and pinned until he talked.

He ducked into the alcove, side stepping into a gap in the wall. The bricks that hadn’t collapsed away around the gap suggested that this doorway was bricked up after this place was built; blocking the long hallway for years before the bombs dropped.

He bent over to pluck the lone candle leaning against the wall, and lit it quickly with his lighter. The flame flickered to life, sending light down the corridor and pushing back the darkness that swallowed the narrow passage.

With quick steps, he walked into it. The walls were getting damper the further he went, drops of water clinging to the bricks and staining it a dark brown.

From his own careful stake-out of HQ before all this had started; he figured this part of the building went under the river. Most of the agents refused to go down here due to the radiation that hung in the stale air and clung to the damp walls, which made it the perfect place for his use. He didn't mind a little bit of rads if it meant he got to be alone. 

He walked for a couple more minutes before his candle lit the entrance to a small room. Stepping in, he went straight to the lantern sitting on the floor in the corner. Flipping the small door open, he lit it carefully with the candle.

Hanging it up on a rusted hook that jutted out of the wall, he blew the candle out. Now with some decent light, he turned to take in the room he hadn’t been to in for over a year.

It was a mess; stacks of dirty old books stolen from the Boston Library lay haphazardly across the dark stone floor. He lazily knocked a few aside with his foot, moving to sink down on the mattress shoved into the opposite corner.  
  
Rolling over, he sifted through the pile of holotapes that had been a bitch to collect over the years. Picking one, he shoved it into his old beaten up recorder.

The jaunty music seemed to warm up the room instantly, and he unhooked his modified laser pistol from his belt to give it a once over. He switched on the battery pack strapped to the back of it to make sure it was still working, and when the LED screen on the side lit up with a green light, he nodded to himself before shutting it off and setting it to the side.

He leaned back onto the mattress again, one arm tucked behind his head as the other tapped to the beat of the music across his stomach.

A small smirk played at his lips as he hummed along. He’d just lay here and wait for Glory to head to sleep. He memorised everyone’s sleep schedules long ago, which had been easy; he’d usually just crashed on a mattress in the common area of HQ when he was tired.

This room was just a nice little get away when he needed it; for special occasions. And if anything qualified as a special occasion in his book, it would be his current predicament.

In the meantime, he kicked back and waited for time to pass.

...

He’d been right about Glory not having the patience to wait him out through the night.

Most of the agents had retired to a mattress by now, and Deacon was even a little surprised to see the snoozing form of the normally neurotic Tinker, curled up on his side and mumbling in his sleep.

Desdemona was one of the few still awake, and he gave her a silly salute as he walked past. She just waved him off with a look of exasperation, which didn’t entirely cover the way her lips twitched upwards.

He snatched up some IV bags of RadAway, and hesitated before taking a bottle of Rad-X just to be safe.

Now with his bag pleasantly weighed down with the medical supplies, he headed to Diamond City.

The sun was coming up behind dark clouds by the time he got to the city, and didn’t waste any time to head to the agency. The glowing neon heart sign stood out in the lazy morning light, and he ducked into the shadowed alcove and raised a fist to knock.

A thought occurred to him, and his knuckles stopped a breath away from the door.

Did Valentine need to sleep?

He felt slightly stupid thinking about it, but his curiosity bit at the back of his mind.

He knocked loudly in case the Synth was asleep and rocked back on his heels, instinctively looking over his shoulder to check for any eyes watching him.

He picked up some soft shuffling from inside the building, and the door swung open with a creak to reveal a perfectly put together synth detective.

That would be a no to the sleep question, then.

“Hey Champ!” He said with a bright smile, ducking under Valentine’s arm. The door closed behind him as he jumped up to sit on the detective’s desk, kicking his legs as he watched Valentine, “Ready for some adventure?”

“You comfortable? ‘Cause I have chairs for a reason.” Valentine said flatly, and Deacon just responded with a shrug and a grin. “Right, well I’m ready to head off when you are. You got that RadAway?”

“And then some,” He said, jostling his bag to show his haul. “My body won’t be turning into a puddle of goo anytime soon. Or at least I hope not, I can see that being a minor inconvenience to my everyday life.”

“Just a minor one?” Valentine snorted, stepping forward until he was next to the desk. Deacon twisted to watch as he picked up a pencil from it and dragged a scrap of paper towards himself.

“I mean, in terms of stealth I’d be awesome. No one suspects the random puddle of human flesh.” He said, tilting his head curiously, “Who’s the note for?”

“Ellie, she won’t be happy with me if I don’t tell her where I’m going off to.” He paused guiltily before adding, “Again.”

Deacon snickered at the detective as he finished the quick note, peeking at it to make sure nothing incriminating was on it.

_Ellie,_

_On a case, going to be a long one. Sorry. I’ll make it up to you when I’m back._

_\- Nick_

“Ellie keeps the place running when I’m out of town,” Valentine explained when he caught Deacon looking, tucking the note under a full file to weigh it down to stop it from falling off the desk, “Least I can do to buy her dinner. Not like I’m spending the caps on food for myself.”

Deacon assumed that meant either Valentine couldn’t eat food, or either just didn’t need to. He was starting to feel a little more comfortable at the similarities Valentine seemed to have with the average Gen Two Synth; first with the sleeping habits and now the eating routine. The more predictable Valentine was, the better.

He jumped up from the desk, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Shall we be off, detective?” He bowed, gesturing to the door.

“After you, agent.” Valentine shot back, and Deacon scowled.

...

The Wasteland _sucked_.

Even when they were on their way to face down the deadliest place in the Commonwealth, it decided it was the perfect time to open up the skies and dump radiated water on them.

The stetson on his head was at least keeping the water out of his eyes, but the rain that made his skin tingle dangerously had no such sympathy for the rest of his body. He shivered as a drop of water ran down his back, and he twisted awkwardly to try and pat it away with his hand.

The angle he turned in left an opening for the rain hit his face, and he spat out the sour taste of water from his mouth as his expression twisted in disgust.

“This sucks!” He whined. Valentine had his collar turned up, his own hat tucked low over his face. He looked just as miserable as Deacon felt.

“No kidding.” He grumbled, tugging up his collar further to cover the rip in his throat. Deacon eyed the wires in there with a sceptical look.

“Rain isn’t going to, I dunno, make you explode or something is it?” He asked warily, making Valentine scoff and shoot him a look of his own.

“Hope not. Throws off my sensory input, at least.” He said, and Deacon caught the brief flexing of his metal hand. What the hell did he mean by that?

He didn’t expect Valentine to know exactly how he ticked, and even though Deacon was confident with his knowledge of Synths he couldn’t remember a time where he wasn’t baffled by the sensory input of the early models. He guessed it had something to do with the Synthetic flesh, but the way Valentine treated his damaged hand was almost like he could still sense touch with it.

“Can you feel anything with that hand?” He asked after a pause. A frowned pulled at Valentine’s face as he seemed to consider the question, bringing the hand up in front of his eyes to look at it with a perplexed expression.

Deacon turned away to focus on walking as Valentine took his time to think of an answer; he wasn’t surprised that it seemed to be a tricky question.

They weren’t too far out of Diamond City, and he could see the start of a lake in front of them coming into view. The left side of the lake sloped downward, while the right held a steep hill that hung over the top of the radiated pool of water. He changed his direction slightly towards the incline of the hill. If they had to go around, they were going the way that gave them the higher ground.

He scanned the hilltop for a glint of a gun, but nothing stood out to him. He didn’t let himself relax; the best snipers always stayed out of sight. His fingers played with the straps of his rifle nervously, taking note at how Valentine changed his direction to keep walking next to him.

“Short answer is yes,” Valentine finally said, and Deacon turned his attention back to the Synth. He looked slightly troubled, flexing his metal hand again as he looked at it with an air of confusion, “Feels worse in water; sorta like hitting your funny bone, I guess.”

Deacon threw his eyebrows up in surprise; he’d never had the displeasure of hitting his 'funny bone', whatever the hell that was, but he’d heard the occasional Merc complain very loudly about it a couple of times when undercover at a bar. He also knew it was distinctly a human thing.

The question was, how did Valentine know what it felt like?

He doubted Gen Two’s were installed to be able to feel it, not when they didn’t even have bones or nerves to speak of.

Maybe Valentine knew of it, and was just using the analogy for Deacon’s benefit. But something was telling him that wasn’t quite the right answer, not with the tone of Valentine’s voice. It was almost like he was talking from personal experience. He _was_ a prototype, it probably had something to do with that. But Deacon couldn’t see any reason the Institute would include that in the detective’s programming.

He hummed to sound understanding, “Sucks.”

“Since we’re asking questions now,” Valentine started, cocking his head to the side and looking at him with yellow eyes, making water flick off the rim of his hat at the movement. Deacon didn’t bother to hold back the annoyed groan, “How’d the talk with Desdemona go?”

“Great, I got a pat on the back and they gave me a promotion. You’re now looking at the supervisor of the cleaning team. Illustrious title, I know.” Deacon said, puffing out his chest and turning his walk into a strut. Valentine was giving him a incredulous look, and Deacon scoffed at him, “Don’t be jealous, Valentine. It’s not a good look on you.”

“Right,” Valentine drawled, rolling his eyes, “Any chance you’re going to tell me what actually happened?”

“Zero chance in Atom’s hell.” He said with a bright grin, giving Valentine’s shoulder a consoling pat, “Don’t take it personally. You can’t trust everyone, you know.”

“Do you mean everyone, or anyone?” Valentine quipped, raising an eyebrow at him. Deacon just turned and gave him the most shocked expression he could muster.

“They’re not the same thing?!”

Valentine held his gaze for a moment before snorting softly, looking away from him. Deacon could see his frustrated amusement written clearly on his face, and he grinned. Nice to know he still had that effect on people.

If things went on like this, hopefully he could discourage Valentine from asking questions entirely.

That cheerful thought added a bounce to his step; even the rain didn’t seem as bothersome anymore.

It helped that the rain was getting lighter. It sprinkled down on them now, and if it wasn’t for the radiation Deacon might have found the way it landed softly on his skin enjoyable.

He set his gaze around the landscape again. They’d made it a decent way up the hill by now; the lake lay below them to their left. The soft rain was creating delicate ripples in the water, giving the impression that the lake was alive with energy. Twigs crunched under their feet as they climbed their way up, being careful not to slip on the dirt that was turning to mud.

“What are we going to do with the kid?” Valentine asked, still looking down at his shoes to make sure he wasn't going to step in a pool of water.

“I thought we agreed to follow her.” Deacon said, frowning slightly at the Synth. Nick was grimacing, the hint on worry in his expression grabbing Deacon's attention enough to turn to the Synth, “I distinctly remember having that conversation.”

“That was before she decided to go to the Glowing Sea alone,” Valentine said, shooting a glance at Deacon, “Someone needs to be with her so whatever the hell decides to attack doesn’t kill her.”

“That’s why we’re following them, if it comes to that we’ll swoop in and save her.” Deacon shot back, but that seemed to just make Valentine more uncertain.

“There’s a good chance we won’t get to her in time. And since she won’t go with me...” Valentine trailed off, giving him a pointed look.

Deacon’s eyes widen in alarm behind his glasses when he caught on to what he was trying to ask.

“No. Nope. Big fat not ever happening.” He stopped and rooted his feet to the ground, crossing his arms defensively as he glared at the Synth who also came to a stop ahead of him. Valentine turned and sighed in exasperation, “I am not going to prance my way up to Cole and escort her around the Sea.”

Valentine was looking at him with a expression that suggested he knew this was exactly how Deacon would react.

_Then why did you ask_. He thought sourly, tilting his chin up stubbornly.

“All I’m sayin’ is someone needs to be there with the kid, if something pops up and attacks-”

“-Then we help from the sidelines.”

“You know as well as I do that ain’t going to do shit.” Valentine scowled, and Deacon mirrored the expression. He clenched his jaw at Valentine, who was just standing there looking determined. Rain was still coming down on them, and the detective's collar had fallen and was exposing the tear in his neck. He didn't move to fix it, seeming to be content with leveling Deacon with an unimpressed stare. 

“You don’t know that. Did you forget I have first hand experience with the happy little fact that she’s fully capable of handling herself?”

“Yeah, in a year from now, when she has some actual damn experience. She barely survived Kellog with someone around knowing the crap that was going to go down. You really think she’s fine to go into the Sea by herself?”

No, but he wasn’t going to tell Valentine that. He was _not_ going to go skipping through the Wastes with Cole pretending she wasn’t a dirty traitor.

“It’s not happening.” Deacon snapped, shutting out whatever Valentine said next. He turned on his heel, boiling with spite as he stalked away and up the hill.

He kept his eyes forward as he moved, determined to ignore every word coming from the detective. Valentine was calling his name, sounding more and more desperate as Deacon refused to acknowledge him.

If Valentine wanted someone to go with Cole, then maybe he shouldn't have gone and plugged his brain up to Kellog. Everything would have been fine if he didn't scare Cole shitless back at the Memory Den, and now he wanted Deacon to step in and clean up his mistake? He snorted to himself; he had enough of his own mistakes to fix, and he was going to do them _his_ way. From a distance where he couldn't be identified.

He was at the top of the hill, and turned to walk around the lake, glaring holes in his shoes. A cold metal hand closed around his forearm, yanking him to a sudden stop that had him stumbling with the unexpected force

“Deacon!” The hissed whisper from the Synth had him turning angrily, but he felt his words die on his tongue when he saw Valentine’s face. He was looking to their right, focused sharply on something over Deacon’s shoulder. His eyes were widened in barely controlled panic, and years of Wasteland experienced settled a heavy weight of dread in his stomach.

He slowly turned, careful not to startle whatever was behind him. He felt himself choke when his eyes landed on the hulking figure that was staring directly at them with dark, sinister eyes. It almost blended in altogether with the Wasteland; it’s sand coloured scales matching the dirt almost perfectly.

His mouth went dry and his heart stuttered in his chest. How the fuck had he not noticed it until now?! He felt Valentine’s hand tighten on his arm in warning not to move. He didn’t need the advice; he’s feet were frozen to the ground. 

It was huge, towering over both himself and Valentine as it started to growl. He swallowed, eyeing it’s massive claws as it lowered itself onto all fours and took a step towards them.

Deacon took half a step back, bumping into Valentine's chest. The Synths other hand came up to steady him. 

"When it attacks, split up." Valentine shakily whispered into his ear. Deacon nodded jerkily, not taking his eyes off the Deathclaw. "Go right, I'll keep left."

The wicked, yellow teeth that jutted out of the jaws of the Deathclaw parted as it let out a vicious, deafening roar.

It dived at them, its large claws digging into the earth at it propelled itself forward, and Deacon bolted. He was vaguely aware of Valentine splitting in a different direction, but his focus zeroed onto the Deathclaw as its hulking figure swung around to face him. The creature swiped at him, flinging himself backwards in a poor dodge, his breath catching as the claws caught his shirt, sending him stumbling sideways as it tore.

Deacon kept his legs moving backwards as it swung its heavy arm for another hit. He dived to the ground, feeling the air part over his head as the claws swung over him, his body skidding harshly over the dirt that kicked up into his eyes.

Pain cut into the palm of his hands as he flipped himself onto his back, scrambling backwards and choking on his desperation as he tried to get back on his feet.

A ‘crack!’ of a gun stole the Deathclaws attention, but Deacon didn’t have time to think on it as he scrambled to his shaking legs, tripping over himself to get some space between him and the Deathclaw.

Another ‘crack!’ had the Deathclaw swinging its head around to snarl at Valentine, who Deacon realised with some hysteria was holding up a tiny pipe revolver.

Like that would do _shit_ to the massive, homicidal thing.

He fumbled for his own pistol, backing up even as he clicked the safety off and letting off a volley of rapid bursts of energy shots.

They hit, but did little else than cause the scales to smoke and blacken. He hastily shoved his pistol back into his belt and swung the rifle from his back. The Deathclaw moved its head back and forth from Valentine and himself, growling as it lowered it’s front legs to the ground. It’s eyes settled back on Deacon, nostrils flaring as he realised, _oh yeah it can smell my blood._

It barrelled into him, and this time he couldn’t dodge the back hand that punched into his torso. The wind was knocked out of him, pain exploding in his chest as he hit the gravel hard and rolled. The ground sloped down under him, and he was picking up speed as he fell. 

Shooting out a hand, he tried to grab onto something, anything, to stop his rolling. Razor like rocks slashed at his palms, turning his fingers slippery with blood as gravity pulled him down the hill. He couldn’t stop himself; he was falling down and then-

The frigid water shocked his system as he plunged under the lake. Radiation burned under his skin as he started to sink lower and lower, his heart beating in his ears. Something was squeezing his chest, panic gripping him when he realised he _couldn’t breathe._

He kicked out his legs as hard as he could, flailing his arms out to try and push himself up to the surface. Jerking, he realised with mounting horror that something caught on his foot, and for a terrifying moment it felt like something alive was gripping onto his leg.

He thrashed, but whatever had a hold of him wasn’t letting go. His lungs had already started screaming for air, and distantly he could feel his whole body burning, heating him up from the inside out as his processors flew into frenzy of confusion.

Reaching blindly down, his hand fumbled around his ankle as he scratched at whatever was holding him. His fingers brushed over something slimy, and his hysteria had him tearing at it, pleading to himself that it wasn’t some sort of underwater creature trying to eat him.

It was too slick to get a grip, and his fingers slid over it harmlessly as he tried to wiggle a finger under it. It was tight around his ankle, and he kicked his leg out in a desperate attempt to get it to loosen. 

Slowly, painfully slowly, exhaustion pulled at him as time ticked on. It could have been minutes or hours before he felt his hand drifting away from his leg and his mind went fuzzy.

He...he had to...do something. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t exactly put a finger on it. His mind drifted, still feeling the screaming burn in his chest. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Squinting his eyes open, he looked up at the shimmering light playing on the surface of the water. A soft smile grazed his lips; it was almost peaceful.

He heard something dive into the water next to him, and there was a brief but unimportant pain in his ankle before he was being pulled up and up-

He broke the surface with a gasp, air rushing back into his lungs as he heaved through a coughing fit. He slapped a clumsy hand over his face, and a wave of indescribable relief washed over his as his hands knocked into the plastic that was dangling off his nose, setting the glasses firmly back into place. Someone was hanging onto him, and he hazily looked around to see Valentine grunting as he pulled Deacon through the water.

Huh, so the tin man can float. Weird.

He kicked his legs as best as he could to try and help, and Valentine glanced at him with such an intense look of relief that it if he wasn’t already reeling from almost drowning, he was sure that would have done it.

“Good, you’re conscious. ‘Cause our Deathclaw problem hasn’t been solved yet.” He said grimly, nodding over to the opposite bank. The agitated Deathclaw paced back and forth, and from here he could see blood dripping off its body from all the new, lovely bullet holes it had.

“He’s going to come right at us when we stop doing laps, ‘aint he?” Deacon croaked. Valentine grunted in affirmative as he pulled them further to the edge of the water. Deacon hastily scanned the shore, spotting a couple of dead trees not too far away from each other. Their trunks were thick and sturdy, and hopefully they'd stand up to being mauled by a Deathclaw.

“Look,” He rasped, pointing a finger towards their right where the trees were. “If we climb up on those, we can shoot at it without being on the mean end of those claws.”

Valentine’s only response was the change their trajectory towards them, and as soon as Deacon could feel the mud under his water-logged shoes, they scrambled up the shore.

Valentine was half dragging him, his arms looped around the Synth’s shoulder as they stumbled their way to the trees. The closer they got, the more his confidence in this plan started to flag. They weren't as tall as he'd thought, but still high enough to get out of direct range of the Deathclaw. 

Another furious roar from behind them was all the motivation they needed, and Valentine dashed to the other tree and grabbed onto the lower branch. Deacon followed his lead, jumping up even as his body protested. His hand gripped the branch, the bark cutting into his partially healed wounds and splitting them back open.

He cursed as he swung his legs up with a grunt, steadying himself on the trunk of the tree before reaching for the next branch. By the time he’d made it to the top and was blanching at the height, the Deathclaw was pacing beneath them.

He tugged out his laser pistol from his belt and aimed, matching Valentine’s loud ‘cracks’ with his own shots.

The Deathclaw howled as Valentine’s bullets punched into its head, splattering dark blood across the dead grass. The Deathclaw snarled, turning to the tree Valentine was in as it identified him as the greater threat.

It clawed at the tree, sending bark flying up as its claws dug into the wood. Deacon’s breath hitched as it managed to pull itself up somewhat before sliding down, leaving deep gashes in the trunk.

It tried again, this time its claws sunk home and stayed. It leapt up, and it clawed it’s way up to Valentine, who was trying to scramble further up the tree.

Shit. He had to do something. He looked around, hoping that he’d somehow been able to keep hold of his rifle and was miraculously laying on the shore. There was nothing, and Deacon looked angrily down at his stupid, dumb-ass useless laser pistol.

....His stupid, bumb-ass, _modified_ laser pistol.

Looking back and forth between the gun and the Deathclaw as it swiped at Valentine’s legs, and idea started to form. It was a stupid plan, but he’d take anything right now.

The Deathclaw had already made it half way up Valentine’s tree, and more cracks of Valentine’s gun shot across the ‘Wealth as the Synth desperately tried to defend himself. Deacon let go of the death grip he had on the truck of the tree and gathered all the courage he had as he eyed the ground that was much too far away.

His heart stopped when he jumped, and couldn’t stop the yelp that escaped him as he fell. He hit the ground and went into a sloppy roll, banging his shoulder painfully as he went.

He got his feet under himself and stood with a slight stumble, turning to face the Deathclaw; it was almost on top of Valentine.

He had one shot at this. He flicked the battery on, and the LED screen came to life with a green glow.

“Hey, give a girl a little attention, I'm feeling left out over here!” He shouted, pointing his gun towards the Deathclaw.

It swivelled its head towards him, tongue flicking out between its jaws before it let go of the tree, falling down into the ground on all heavy, four legs.

It turned to him, snarling before it leapt. He held his breath as he aimed as carefully as he could, pulling up all his old programming he could remember.

He pulled the trigger.

The gun ruptured in his hands with a deafening ‘bang!’, sending shrapnel through his forearms and into his chest as the large red laser struck the Deathclaw directly in its right eye.

If the explosion hadn’t deafened him, the howling of the Deathclaw would have done the job. It stumbled back, cradling its head as red dust crumbled out from the hole in its face.

Ah fuck, it was still alive.

“Valentine, throw me your gun!” He called out, spotting Valentine in the tree staring dumbstruck down at him.

“What did you do!?”

“Just throw me the gun!” Deacon yelled back, his patience running out quickly as the Deathclaw recovered. Valentine lobbed the revolver at him, and he caught it with practiced hands as the weight smacked into his palms.

He pointed to gun up, aiming carefully once more as the Deathclaw looked back up at him and roared.

He interrupted it with a bullet through the same eye, lodging it deep into its brain.

The Deathclaw stumbled, wavering back and forth before finally, it fell forward with an earth shuddering thump.

If it wasn’t for the ringing in his ears, the Commonwealth would have been utterly silent. He nodded to himself at a job well done, before turning abruptly and violently heaving up the contents of his stomach.

There was a metallic taste in his mouth, and he spat it on the dirt. Blood splattered onto the ground, and he winced as his mouth filled up with more as it pooled from between his teeth.

Yep, definitely had radiation poisoning. How long had he been in that fucking lake for?

He heard Valentine approach before he looked up at the man. Swiping a hand over his bloody mouth, he straightened up to turn to the Synth. The hand on his shoulder startled him, but he covered it with a grin.

“Well, that was terrible. Let’s never do that again.”

“Are you alright?” Valentine asked, his expression tensed in concern, “If you don’t want to be growing another limb, I’d say we should get some RadAway into you.”

“Reckon if I grew another foot, I’d be able to run faster?” He wondered out loud as Valentine led him over to an old fallen log and sat him down, “Oh, what about an extra hand? I could take up juggling.”

“Hold on, your bag fell off before you hit the water.” Valentine said, and disappeared to go grab it. Deacon groaned and hunched over as his stomach gave another dangerous roll. He squeezed his eyes closed and just concentrated on not vomiting.

The detective was back when Deacon blinked his eyes open, and watched as a slightly blurry Valentine prepared the IV drip.

“Give me your arm.” Valentine said, holding out his hand. Deacon just narrowed his eyes at him.

“It’s fine, I’ll do it.” Deacon held him arm protectively close to his chest, making Valentine sigh and pin him with a withering look.

“Yeah, I’ll let that happen when your eyes start focusing properly.” He snarked, gesturing for his arm again. “You’ll gouge a chunk out of your arm before you hit a vein.”

Deacon clenched his jaw, hesitating for a moment before his resolve broke and moved his forearm for Valentine to take. The drip went in quickly, and Valentine moved to sit next to him as he held up the orange bag to keep the flow of the liquid down into his body.

“You didn’t happen to see my Rifle, did you?” He asked after a brief silence, sending a glance over to the lake. Maybe it fell off his back when he was rolling with his bag. That hope was dashed when Valentine shook his head.

“At the bottom of the lake by now.” He answered.

“Great, no gun. Awesome.” He scowled, handing over the pipe revolver Valentine had thrown at him as he spoke. He really should have thought of that before he destroyed his own.

“Why the hell did your pistol explode like that?” Valentine asked with a frown, and Deacon couldn’t really blame him for wanting to know. Not like many laser pistols went exploding spontaneously.

Laser guns just tended to stop working with age; over-heating wasn’t usually a major problem.

He looked over to the pile of burnt metal that was once his gun. He couldn’t see any real harm in telling the Synth what he’d done to it; and the fact that he felt a little grateful that the other man had just saved his life didn’t hurt either.

“I modified it. You saw that battery pack strapped to the back of it?” He asked, and when Valentine nodded he went on, “Well, there’s a nifty, frightening thing laser pistols can do; it can make things go poof in a brilliant shower of pink dust. Doesn’t happen often but, you know, handy when it does. All you gotta do is add a little oomph to the power and you can control it. Down side is that it overloads the conductors and makes a big bang.”

Valentine made a noise of interest, and he turned to look back over at the Synth. Valentine locked eyes with him, and Deacon was a little surprised to see that he looked genuinely impressed by his little modification.

It wasn’t really all that impressive, more of a last ditch effort on Deacon’s part for a one hit kill when he really needed it. He wouldn’t have modified it at all if he wasn’t already use to using laser pistols, or liked that they were near silent. Not like he had the caps to be buying silencers for guns that took bullets.

“Looked like you got its eyes, why not just shoot it anywhere if its going to do that to it?”

“The scales like to repel laser damage, can’t get to the skin underneath. Didn’t know if it would be enough.” He said with a shrug. He was already starting to feel better thanks to the RadAway, the sickness starting to retreat from his tired body. "Might've done nothing, might've just got rid of some scales. Wasn't really wanting to test it when I was about to become its dinner."

Valentine nodded at his reasoning, before turning to look at the Deathclaw’s body in distaste. They were both dripping from their dip in the lake, and Deacon sent a cursory look around the water in search of his hat. A nudge from Valentine had him looking back, and the Synth passed the stenson to him.

He blinked down at it before taking it; it was dry. Valentine probably picked it up with his bag when he went over to grab his stuff. He set it back over his head with a nod of thanks to the Synth.

He knew people usually verbally thanked others when they saved each others lives. He felt his chest tightening again when he opened his mouth to say something, but whatever he was trying to say just wouldn't come. Hesitating, he closed it with a sigh, and the knot in his chest loosened.

The urge to at least say something still nudged at him as he eyed Valentine, his metal hand seizing open and closed. He wasn’t saying anything, but there was small hints the Valentine wasn’t exactly in top shape either.

The twitch in his right eye, and the louder than normal whirring coming from somewhere deep under the coat all suggested deep discomfort.

Deacon knew that Valentine had said something earlier about water making him feel worse. He couldn't image diving into a lake did him any good, and Deacon looked down as his stomach twisted. 

He wondered if it hurt.

“Alright then Nick, as much as I love sitting around doing nothing, how about we do it without a corpse nearby.” He said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder to the Deathclaw. “And out of the rain, I’ve had enough of water.”

If Deacon was expecting Nick to ignore his use of his first name, he was sorely mistaken.

“Nick, eh? What happened to ‘Valentine’.” Nick grinned at him, making Deacon whack him on the shoulder with the back of his hand.

“Shut it, or I’ll start calling you something real creative. Like Buttmuncher, or Wiggles.” He paused, wincing, “No, wait. They’re terrible. Check in with me when the rads aren’t melting by brain.”

Nick laughed as he pulled Deacon up, slinging the arm not connected to the IV over his shoulder, making sure to keep the bag elevated to keep the drip steady.

...

When Nick’s hand stopped clenching, and Deacon no longer felt like he just tried to hug an atom bomb, they headed out again.

The closer to the Glowing Sea they got, the more anxious Deacon started to feel. 

The idea that they may run into another Deathclaw wasn’t exactly a pleasant one. He’d been kicking himself ever since he could think straight; he should have seen that Deathclaw before he’d practically walked on top of it.

This was why he worked alone, he got too damn distracted when another person was with him.

Talking about said person, it wasn’t helping his stress levels that the Synth was shooting looks at him from the side of his eye the entire walk. He was starting to be able to read Nick’s face more easily, and what it told him was that the detective had questions.

He hated questions.

He started counting the hours it took before the detective cracked. Nick lasted just as the sun was starting to dip under the horizon, and they set up camp around a patch of lonely trees.

Deacon dumped the wood he’d been collecting onto the ground, brushing off his arms as Nick stepped in to make the fire. He was looking at Deacon again with narrowed eyes, and he didn’t miss the once over Nick gave him that lingered at his ankle for a moment.

He flopped himself onto the ground, digging through his bag to try and appear like he was busy.

“Can’t help but notice how well your cuts have healed.” Valentine started, and Deacon practically buried his head into the bag to avoid looking up. 

“Stimpacks will do that.” He answered, pulling out a tin of cram from his pack with a wrinkle of his nose. He didn’t have to pretend to hate cram, the stuff was foul. He dropped it back in his bag for some Fancy Lad snacks. There, much better.

“When did you take a Stimpack?” He heard Valentine say with a healthy amount of doubt as he tore at the box.

“In the tree.” He said as casually as possible, shoving a handful of the small, stale biscuits into his mouth.

“You didn’t have your bag. Where’d you get it from?”

Deacon munched around his full mouth as he turned to look at Nick, keeping his eyes focused just to the right of the detectives head. He knew he looked ridiculous, and he hoped that would throw off the detective. He shoved another handful in.

“Youf woulnt beleif meh ef i tol yo.” The words came out barely distinguishable, and the brief look of disgust that flashed over the detective’s face made a flash of triumph burn through him.

“Yeah, because you lie about everything.” Nick grumbled as he turned back to the wood, setting up the sticks with one hand as he brought out his lighter from his coat pocket.

Deacon swallowed, and gave Nick his best smile. The detective looked up at him, his eyes lingering on his face.

“Well, if you must know, a crow flew over with one in its claws. I thanked the noble creature, and to my immense surprise it spoke to me,” He said, and Nick scoffed and sat back, turning to face him fully.

“Uh-huh. And what happened then?” Nick asked, and Deacon felt his smile turn to something more genuine.

“You know what it said to me? It said, and I quote, ‘Dear Deacon, most brave and handsome of the ‘Wealth, do you not realise that your gun is a machine of mass destruction? Turn that power onto thy enemy.’ Genius, if I do say so myself. It flew off before I could get its name, but he shall remain in my heart forever. Really, you should be thanking that guy for saving your ass.”

“Right,” Nick barked out a laugh before turning back to the small fire and starting to coax it into life. “If you ever see him again, pass on my thanks.”

“Don’t you worry, I wont even exaggerate when I tell him how overcome with emotion you were in gratefulness,” Deacon said, grinning as the Synth just smiled and shook his head in exasperation. There was a lull in the conversation as Nick continued to poke at the fire until it was properly going, throwing light and warmth to combat the darkening sky.

“How’s the hand doing?” He asked, and Nick shot his eyes back up at him. There was a pause, and the Synth seemed to be turning something over in his mind.

“Doing better,” He answered, sitting back and bringing it up to his face for inspection as he flexed it, “Not wet anymore, at least.”

“So...how’d it happen?” He asked after a brief hesitation.

“A wind turbine fought back,” He scoffed lightly, looking up at Deacon and - to his annoyance - reading his next question on his face , “I was the handyman in Diamond City before I was the Detective. Did the odd job here and there to earn my keep.”

“Yeah, I bet they were _super_ accommodating.”

“Couldn’t really blame them, no matter how they felt about me,” He shrugged, “The important thing is that they warmed up to me eventually.”

“Charmed a whole town, did you?” Deacon laughed, and Nick smiled at him, “Why am I not surprised.”

“More like I charmed the mayor, and he told the rest of the City to tolerate me. And when I say charmed, I mean found his daughter being held by a gang and got her back.”

Deacon’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, “Ah, so you don’t just go around saving lost pets, good to know.”

Nick scowled, looking back at the fire before murmuring, “That’s only half my cases.”, and Deacon snorted as the detective shot him a look from the corner of his eye with a small smirk.

The morning came fast, Deacon had tried to sleep but wasn't able to close his eyes long enough to make an honest attempt. As soon as light came, he was shooing Nick up from the spot he was smoking, next to the dead fire.

They picked up the pace, and Deacon was now a lot more aware of the surrounding wildlife thanks to their little Deathclaw run in. There was a few Bloatflies and Bloodbugs hovering across their path, but they navigated carefully around the insects without drawing attention to themselves.

He almost lost Nick when Deacon turned around to say something and the other man wasn’t there.

After the brief panic attack, thinking that Nick finally did it and sold him out to the Institute, he heard the Synth call his name.

Spinning around with his heart in his throat and a hand on the knife strapped to his thigh, he finally saw him. Nick was crouched down in the distance, poking at something on the ground.

He stalked over, annoyance pulling a glare from his face as he rounded on Nick.

“Don’t just do that to a guy, Nick! That’s twice you’ve almost given me a heart attack now, this partnership is taking a serious toll on my health.”

“Cole’s been through here.” Nick said. Deacon's eye widened as he blinked down at the Synth.

“What!?” Deacon said, changing his tone immediately and dropping next to Nick to get a look at whatever had grabbed the detective’s attention. There was a black and white Gum drop wrapper laying in the dirt, and Deacon turned a sceptical eye to Nick.

“Did the paper tell you that?”

“No, but the evidence you’re stepping in does.”

He blinked down at his feet, stepping back gingerly from the footprints in the dirt he’d destroyed with his own.

“Oh. My sincere apologies.”

Nick waved his words off, and gestured in front of them,“There’s some more over there.”

Deacon looked up, and could barely make out the dents in the ground that suggested the outline of a shoe.

“And pray tell, how you know these are Cole's?” He asked, frowning. These footprints could be anyone’s, no matter what software Nick was installed with, he sincerely doubted the Synth would be able to tell who it was by their shoes.

Nick just shrugged a shoulder, standing to get a good look at the trail.

“I don’t know for sure, but the shoe size fits Cole’s feet, and you can tell the height of the person by how far away the prints are from each other,” Nick pointed out, and Deacon stood as well to try and see what the detective was. He wasn’t having much luck, they weren’t telling him anything besides ‘person A walked this way’, “The further apart, the taller they are; it matches. Also helps that I know Cole is obsessed with Gum drops.

“Wouldn’t hold up in court, but we have ourselves a lead.” Nick finished with a clap on Deacon’s shoulder as he passed. He scowled, rubbing his shoulder as he turned to follow Nick.

“What’s a ‘court’?” He asked as he trotted after the Synth, who just said something vague about the pre-war world. That caught his attention, and he bothered the detective for more details the whole way as Nick would stop and crouch, finding more footstep for them to follow.

Turns out, Nick had an extensive knowledge of the pre-war world, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he had picked up Deacon’s habit of lying. He couldn’t think of another reason the Synth would know so much, but it was enjoyable to listen to anyway.

Deacon could instantly tell when they were getting closer to the Sea, and he popped a Rad-X pill in his mouth the moment he started to feel the radiation prickling at the back of his neck.

The dead, rotting trees almost created a border, defining exactly where the worse of the radiation began. The green tinge the world took put him on edge, and his eyes roved across the landscape for any hint of movement.

“So, what now?” He asked, turning around to look a Nick, “Reckon she’s been through here?”

The detective frowned, turning around on the spot to get a good look of the area around them

“Whoever we’re following has gone in further, if we keep going we could spot the-”

-A far off, frightened scream cut of Nick before he could finish. They locked eyes and shared a horrified look before they were both running.

Deacon easily passed Nick, his heart was beating in his ears and he tried to calm himself even as he pushed himself to go faster. She’d be fine until they got there, Cole could handle herself.

He kept chanting this to himself as he ran, and finally started to see a moving speck in the distance. He couldn’t see her in detail, but somehow he knew without a doubt it was the Vault Dweller.

She was holding a pistol in shaky hands, turning back and forth as she aimed it the ground and let off random shots.

He hadn’t even made it anywhere close to her when the Scorpion burst out of the dirt in a shower of earth. Cole stumbled back, letting off a few panicked shots that glanced harmlessly off the top of it’s shell.

“Shoot the face!” He shouted as loud as his heaving lungs allowed him, but all her attention was on the Scorpion. He kept running, kept pushing, he drew the knife from the holster from his leg. If he could somehow flip it on its back he could-

-Cole shouted in panic again as the Scorpion scuttled forward, almost too fast to follow. She had no chance to dodge as its stinger reared back, whipping forward and burying itself into her stomach.

“No!” He screamed as she fell back, clutching at her bloody stomach as she hit the ground. The Scorpion struck again, hitting her thigh with its stinger just as Deacon made it.

He kicked as hard as he could, and felt his foot connect with the Scorpion, sending it toppling over to its side. He neatly dodged the tail that flayed wildly, and buried the hunting knife into the face of the giant monster. It let out a sick hissing noise, and Deacon reared back again before striking. This time he made sure the knife was pushed deep in its brain, and it went limp as Deacon scrambled up and over to Cole’s side.

He heard Nick running up behind him, ignoring him he wrenched the dirty blue backpack from Cole’s arms. There had to be a Stimpack in there somewhere, and he frantically dug through changes of dusty clothing and water to find one.

He felt Nick crouch opposite to him, grabbing Cole’s hand as she blinked dazedly up at them.

“Deacon.” Nick said, and he felt himself involuntarily look up to lock eyes with the detective, who had grim lines pulling at his face, “The kid’s been stung two times, she ain’t going to make it.”

Deacon swallowed, looking down at Cole’s face as her eyes started to close.

Deacon and Nick shared another look filled with dread, and Nick opened his mouth to speak.

“Find me, and we’ll have two weeks to prepare. Skinny Malone is holding me at-”

Something tugged in Deacon’s chest, and the world melting away is a cascade of darkness-

...

_“-hackin’ and whackin’ and smackin’-”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So a lot happened in this chapter. 
> 
> Deacon's guide on how to handle crippling emotional times: laugh at it then ignore. It's not really Deacon's style to be breaking down crying (he can take some more stress before that happens muhahaha) so manic laughter is the next best thing.
> 
> Ohh boy Deacon, I think there's a lesson here you should learn here. Don't go around assuming she's at the same skill level at the start of the reboots. And OF COURSE Nick was right that she shouldn't go into the Sea alone, she isn't a badass just yet, but not much they could do about it until they caught up. Nick was totally planning to persuade Deacon into joining Cole tho.
> 
> If you wanted to know what song Deacon was listening to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CX45pYvxDiA
> 
> FFfffffff, I'm pretty sure this chapter murdered me. Don't know why it took me forever to get it done, but it just was not cooperating with me. I'd write something, hate it, change it, hate it more, change it back and try and reword it. Hell on earth. I'm still not completely happy with it. Very excited to finally have that Deathclaw scene in there, been planning that for a while now. And look! The time loops are very not over yet, have fun with that Deacon. I'm sure the more progress you make, the more it'll hurt when I yank it away. :) 
> 
> If a Synth dies as they're being escorted through the Commonwealth, and if the Synth gives their permission, they can donate their components to the Railroad for research on how to crack the fail-safe. Its not a popular choice that the Synth's make, but a few are more than happy to donate to try and contribute to bringing down the Institute in any way they can. Sometime's they get an influx of donations, most of the time they get none for months. Everyone prefers it that way, especially Deacon and Glory.
> 
> Side Note: it's totally my strategy in game to scale the nearest big thing to get away from Deathclaws to take shots out of range. It's lead to some interesting game play. Imaging me, who wandered into a Deathclaw nest in fallout 3 without realising it was a Deathclaw nest, level 10, stranded on a rock because every time I jumped down FIFTY FUCKING DEATHCLAWS WOULD RUSH ME, my last save four hours ago. Took me alllll day, but I cleared that motherfucking nest from my rock.


	6. The Grief

Deacon ducked with a curse as chunks of concrete exploded next to his head. Pushing himself away from the cover of the stairs, he brought his gun up to the man crouching behind a rusty trashcan to his left. He pulled the trigger in three rapid shots, throwing himself back behind cover without looking to see if it hit. The disembodied scream was enough of an answer for him. More concrete blasted into the air as bullets tore into the floor, throwing up debris and cutting into the cloth near the ankles of his jeans.

One down, two more to go.

He took a breath, doing a quick count of how much charge was left in the fusion cell that he’d jammed into his gun. He braced himself and bolted out from cover. Holding out his gun to the side he let out a burst of shots, covering as wide of an area he could manage before he diving behind a support beam. Pressing his back to it, he held his breath as bullets pinged off the wall in front of him.

The two Triggermen were shouting over each other, but Deacon couldn’t make out the words over the deafening hail of bullets. He almost checked over his shoulder as the explosive shots stopped, but paused when he heard the slapping of shoes running towards him. He got on his feet in a crouch, turning towards the left and shoving his gun roughly back into his belt.

As soon as the Triggermen holding the bat rounded the cover of the support beam, he leapt up. He caught the bat mid-swing with a loud smack in his hand. He snorted at the stunned look on the Triggerman’s face before he reared his free hand back and punched the man square in the nose. As the man started to fall back, Deacon tore the bat out of his hand and tossed it to the side. He grabbed the collar of his shirt, turning him to press his back to Deacon’s front. In one movement, he stepped out of cover with his human shield, and tugged out his laser pistol.

Pushing against the bullets that punched into the Triggermen’s torso, he brought his own pistol up and shot the woman with the sub-machine gun. She went down with a shout of rage, the fusion cell burning through her pin-striped suit and into her heart.

The smack of her body hitting the ground echoed through the old dirty subway. Deacon lowered the body he was holding as he scanned for any other threats. The place was almost ghostly, with the dim orange light bulbs scattered across the station. They were struggling to cast light on the train that slumped over the platform.

Nothing moved. Creeping forward with his gun held at the ready, he listened carefully for any sounds of a person. Drips of water echoing from somewhere was all he could hear, and he let himself relax slightly as he turned to the first Triggerman he’d shot.

The good thing about laser pistols was that they cauterised the wound as soon as they burnt through a body. Only the general Wasteland dust dirtied the suit, leaving it clean from blood. The thug laid slumped behind the trashcan, and Deacon didn’t waste time to pull off the suit.

He dressed quickly, tugging the hat over his eyes, he looked over at the cracked windows of the broken train. His reflection blinked back at him, now dressed in the infamous Triggermen style. The reflection frowned when he noticed something missing, and he turned to look for the woman’s body. He trotted over, plucking up the sub-machine gun that had clattered to the floor.

Turning back to the windows, he grinned at himself.

“Lookin’ sharp as always.” He said with a wink to his reflection, taking a second to strike a pose and laugh at himself.

He swung the gun up to his shoulder, slipping his other hand into his pocket. He walked forward with an air of casualness he’d practised hard for, and further into Skinny Malone’s base. It took a while to run across more Triggermen, but after a cursory glance at him, went back their own mundane activities. Thank god they hadn't heard the little scuffle before, he wasn't feeling up to fighting tooth and nail through the base yet. Some were playing cards, huddled in a group with a small pile of caps between them. Some others, though few, were cleaning and checking their weapons for damage. As he got further into the base without any suspicion, he had to hold himself back from shaking his head in second-hand embarrassment. Honestly, even if these guys were new to organised crime, he would have thought Skinny would have trained his guys better.

The tunnel opened up to a wide cavern, the concrete walls and floors turning to packed dirt. Giant pre-war industrial machines littered the area, discarded and left to rust. Looking at them with interest, he figured the hulking machines dug out this space one upon a time. They must have finished up construction as soon as the bombs fell, if they still had these machines here.

More Triggermen were leaning on them, chatting to each other . He caught the eye of one of the men as he passed, giving him a curt nod. The gang member immediately lost any interest he had in Deacon, turning back to his little group.

He couldn't stop himself from whistling in appreciation when he caught sight of the Vault entrance. He’d only ever been close to the one Cole had popped out of, and that was still from a distance. The cog-shaped door stood above his head, and he quickly sought out the stairs that would lead up to it.

The metal grating of the stairs clanked under he shoes as he climbed his way up and walked over to the console. Levers and buttons were in seemingly random spots, all with unknown purposes. The big red one seemed promising, so throwing caution to the wind he pressed it. He almost jumped in alarm when a loud hissing sound split the air with a grinding of metal on metal that rattled his teeth. The Vault door shifted, let out another hissing noise before receding into the wall. The metal rotated and swung open, making Deacon take half a step back. If he hadn’t seen it, he would have thought the seamless movements of a hunk of metal that size would be impossible. The wonders of the pre-bomb era never ceased to amaze. Too bad they’d nuked each other out of existence.

The conversation behind him stopped, and he resisted the urge to look back to see if they were staring at him. Keeping his body relaxed, he stepped on the grating that slid out from the floor, making a bridge to cross into the Vault.

As soon as he was on the other side, he found the next console and closed the door behind him. The silence that followed after the metal had stopped screaming felt eerily final. He shook himself to try to dispel the feeling. Negative thinking was not allowed now. Only sunshine and positive feelings until something actually went wrong, thank you.

The vault was shockingly clean, except for a couple of papers scattered across the floor. It was a far cry from the Institute, but the white walls seemed to close up around him a little more tightly than normal. Boxes up in the corners of the room were stacked together, with the 'vault-tech' logo printed on top. In a moment of curiosity he almost moved towards one to open it up and look inside, but as he started to walk he heard a shuffle in the next room. He slapped a smile on his face as a tall man came through the doorway, frowning as he looked down at him.

“Who the hell are you suppose to be?” The Triggerman asked. From what Deacon could see of the man, he screamed classic Goodneighbour thug. His scruffy, tightly cut beard sat in patches across his skin. Shaved with what Deacon could only guess was a dull hunting knife. A scar ran over his left eye, and dropping his eyes he saw a 44. magnum clutched tightly in his hand.

Deacon gave a pause, before turning back his head and laughing.

“This is classic! I knew you couldn’t hold your liquor, wait until I tell Sammy about this.” Deacon said, wiping a fake tear from his eye as he pulled a name from nowhere. The gang member scowled at him, looking offended as he puffed out his chest.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Come on man, don’t you remember me? We played that drinkin’ game. Told ya you wouldn’t remember a thing, you lightweight.” Deacon said with a grin, stepping down off the metal grating to walk towards the door the other man was blocking.

The Triggerman's frown turn to one of confusion, squinting at him as if he was trying to place Deacon in his memories. He was thinking hard, which to Deacon's benefit seemed like a difficult task.

“Uh...yeah. Yeah, I remember you. It was the game with Chucks and Pete, right?”

“That’s the one.” He agreed with a wink, side stepping the man to get through the door. A hand closed around his shoulder before he could get all the way, stopping him from getting inside.

“What are you doin’ down here? Skinny don’t want no more of us in the vault.”

“Cause of the synth, right?” He asked, continuing as the other nodded, “Yeah, I just got sent down. Apparently the detective has been kickin’ up a stink about his housing situation. Just making sure he don’t have laser eyes to break the locks, or something.”

“What?”

“I’m extra muscle, is what I mean.” Deacon clarified. The man took a moment to think before nodding again, letting him go.

“That sounds 'bout right, didn’ know the plastic bastards could be that annoyin’. He’s lucky we didn’ shove 'im in a closet with the rest of the junk, he's freaky lookin'. Skinny’s being too nice to the thing. I like his...uh...'new squeeze' though, she’s got the right idea. She just wanted to kill it." He grunted, wrinkling his nose. "Did Skinny tell ya' when he’s gonna be back?”

Deacon forced out another laugh, hoping it didn’t sound too strained as chirped out a ‘Nope!’. He clapped the Triggerman on the shoulder as he moved to walk past, fighting not to deck the guy in the face instead. At least the big boss apparently wasn't at base; he felt something loosen in his chest. They had that on their side.

“Hey,” He paused, calling over his shoulder with a last-minute thought. May as well put the cherry on top of his little deception, “Don’t forget our next game, yeah? I’m gonna be wipin’ the floor with you.”

All he got was a moody grunt from the man before he turned the corner and descended a large metal staircase. He nodded at a Triggerman who passed him on the way down, who’s blown pupils suggested he was high on something. The man blinked slowly at him before continuing up the stairs, and Deacon felt his confidence rise.

With some luck, which ever group they had smoked with were as out of it as he was. He got to the next level, and the sounds of conversations were echoing through the dirty walls. There were more and more rooms with groups of gang members, laughter booming out from every occupied space. The musty, sour smell of Jet stained the air, and Deacon had to refrain from wrinkling his nose in distaste.

The Vault was a maze, and there was more than one time Deacon paused at a T section in the hallway, anxiously looking back and forth the see where he should go. He picked up his pace, the smell of the Jet getting to him as things started to slow down around him. He shook his head to get the feeling out, and his head twinged in annoyance when all it did was send everything he could see into a streaking blur.

 _Okay_ , he told himself as he focused on walking straight, _this is fine._ Wasn’t the first time he’d ever caught second-hand highs, sometimes it was part of the job infiltrating gangs like these. That didn’t stop him from being irked that it still had an effect on him.

Ignoring the way the colours on the walls and floor now seemed very interesting, he kept pushing himself forward. It was more of an accident when he finally stumbled across Valentine than it was deliberate. He found himself in a space that looked to be a communal cafeteria back in its heyday. The white lights were almost blinding as he stepped into it, and out of the shadows of the hallway.

His ear drums were cotton at this point, and he took a moment to bat at his ears to try to unclog whatever was blocking them as he walked - stumbled - forward. He looked up wearily, spotting a sign to the left of him bolted to the door reading ‘OVERSEERS OFFICE’.

His eyes followed a staircase, leading up to a large window looking out over the open room he was standing in. That seemed like a fitting place for an overseers office. People in power usually liked the symbolism that came with putting their offices physically above everyone.

He trotted up the stairs, using the railing to make sure he wasn't going to tilt sideways and go tumbling down. He kept a hand on the wall as he turned and followed it, reaching the window and peering inside.

He grinned, feeling something lift in his chest when he spotted a familiar Synth sitting on the floor in front of a dusty desk. Nick was looking thoughtfully at the ground, spinning a cigarette between metal fingers.

Deacon knocked on the glass, and Nick’s head snapped up at him. A smile bloomed over the Synth’s face, and Deacon leaned on the glass as Nick pushed himself to his feet.

“Was wondering when you were going to show your face.” Nick said, leaning back on the desk and cocking his head to the side.

“Give a guy a break. You might wake up locked in one of the most secure rooms in a Vault, but I wake up with everything but my head buried in the ground. Takes some time to dig my way out of that, you know.” Deacon said, moving to the terminal set up next to the locked door. He powered it up, blinking as the green text started to slide across the black screen. Oh boy, this was gonna be fun, “Don’t piss of farmers, they’ll plant you in the ground and leave you for the Mole Rats.”

“I’m actually surprised you got here so fast, didn’t think you heard me before we got sent back.”

“I didn’t.” Deacon said absent-mindedly, squinting at the screen. That helped a little, at least the sliding letters slowed down.

He could feel the curious look Nick sent him, but he ignored it in favour of stumbling his way into bringing up the password recovery page. His brain ground to a halt as he tried to make sense of the symbols that loaded up. Everything he knew about hacking suddenly seemed too much effort to bother remembering. His eyes flicked up to the top of the page. He had four chances to get this right if he didn't want to get locked out. He considered the possible passwords in front of him; they were short words with only about nine options to choose from.

Four out of nine odds wasn’t _that_ bad, right?

“Hey, you okay? You went quiet.” Nick’s muffled voice asked, and Deacon snorted.

“Not use to me shutting up for once, eh?” Deacon said, bringing his hands down to the keyboard to scroll down. Okay, _wow_ , that was so much worse. The symbols scattered as he hovered the cursor above them, and Deacon’s head gave a throb of pain.

“That’s not an answer.” Nick said, and Deacon ignored him as he huffed in annoyance at the computer. He wasn’t getting anywhere with this terminal in his current state. He picked a word at random - pseudo - and winced as the tries remaining bar flashed and decreased to three.

He was on his last try and getting desperate when the next word - damned - flashed green, and Deacon let out a rush of relieved air as it brought him to the main menu. He’d just punched in the command to open the door as a startled shout broke his concentration. He spun around to see a Triggerman with a black mohawk gaping before he pulled out his submachine gun.

He managed a small “fuck” before the door behind him slid open, and a metal hand grabbed tightly to the back of his jacket. He barely avoided a spray of bullets as Nick yanked him back, and the world spun as his drugged brain - however that shit worked - tried to process what was happening. His breath rushed out of him as he landed on something human shaped. He wheezed as it wiggled out from under him and grabbed the machine gun he’d snagged earlier from his hands.

Valentine was saying something, but the mix of bullets, the man at the entrance screaming for help, and the high was making it difficult to hear. His vision righted, and he shoved himself up to see Nick crouched at the doorway, peering out to return fire at the man. The gun fire stopped at the sound of splattered guts, and suddenly Nick was at his side and heaving him up to stand.

“Hey! You in there?”

“Yeah sorry.” Deacon said, giving his head another shake, “Got a bit of a...uh, second-hand high.”

Deacon huffed in annoyance at the look Nick threw at him, “It’s not like I _wanted_ to.”

“Can you hold a gun?” Nick asked, and Deacon drew the laser pistol from his belt and nodded. Nick clapped him on the back, giving him a once over. “Alright, stay behind me, ya hear?”

Nick knew exactly where he was going, which in hindsight made sense. They weaved their way through the corridors, and Deacon took mental note of the paths and where they led for future reference. But no matter how well Nick knew the Vault, it didn’t stop the Triggermen finding them.

They seemed to stream in from everywhere, each corner holding more men with guns then the last. Nick unloaded into the chest of a thug before he could get off the first shot. The Synth turned to check he was okay, when Deacon spotted another man rounding the corner up ahead. The Triggerman lifted his gun to shoot at Nick's back. He felt his body move before his mind caught up with himself, and he shoved Nick out of the way as the gun went off.

His hip exploded in pain as the bullets hit, but he didn’t let it stop him from bringing up his laser pistol and letting off a volley of shaky shots. The man went down with a wet gurgle, hole burnt into his chest and throat.

Before Deacon could even think to lean against a wall for support, he felt his arm get jerked up as Nick ducked under it. The Synth pressed up to his good side, supporting his weight as they moved forward. The shock of the close contact was almost enough to drown out the feeling of his side starting to stitch itself up. Dread filled him as he realised the bullets were still inside him; he was going to have to heal around them. And then he'd have to explain it to Nick later, because he had no doubt anymore that Nick wouldn't miss it. Great.

“That was dumb as hell kid, next time just let me take the hit. I’m not the one who’s gonna bleed out.” He said quietly as they approached a corner. Nick moved them to keep Deacon behind the wall as he looked around the corner with his gun in hand.

“But I make such a good target Nick.” He winced as Nick pulled him out of cover and into the clear hallway, “How can I deny anyone the chance to have a crack at me? That would be downright selfish.”

“Are you always this impossible to deal with, or am I special?” Nick muttered, apparently finding this a perfect time to roll his eyes at Deacon. A crack of a gun went off, and Deacon was shoved hard into a wall as Nick scrambled to find cover for them. Nick let him go, and his legs buckled under him. He slid down the wall, grunting as pain stabbed his side.

He heard a couple of shots from the gun Deacon had given Nick, before the Synth was back at his side, hauling him up.

“I’m always impossible, but I think you’re still plenty special. Don’t you worry your lil’ head.” He gave Nick a couple of pats on the back, which the Synth ignored in favour of dragging Deacon through the Vault.

After what felt like hours, they burst out of the Subway. Deacon stepped away from Nick as they ran for the cover of one of the alleyways leading away from the Commons. Deacon took the lead, guiding Nick through the city and avoiding the routes Runners took, in case someone was watching. He could feel Nick’s eyes plastered to his back as they put more distance between them and the Triggermen. He felt like he had a good grasp on what the detective was gonna ask him about.

He had two major problems to deal with now. The first was the stabbing pain in his abdomen from the bullets still buried in his guts. He’d have to take care of that sooner than later, and he winced at the thought. It wasn’t the fist time he’d had to dig bullets from his body.

The second was that Nick had, without a doubt, noticed that Deacon wasn’t bleeding out from what should be a near fatal wound. And he couldn’t exactly explain it away with a sneaky stimpack behind his back this time. From the way Nick kept looking at him, he had a feeling he wasn’t going to buy it.

It wasn’t a huge trip from the Common’s to Diamond City, and now he just wanted to rent a room and pass out for a bit. His mind was still on the edge of foggy from the Jet, it was best to sleep the rest of the effects off.

They were about halfway there, passing behind a building that would keep them off the main road, when Nick spoke up.

“Hold up,” He said, and Deacon stopped as Nick grabbed his arm from behind him. Deacon stifled a sigh; show time. “Let me check that wound, it looked ugly back there.”

“No need, it only grazed me.” He said with a reassuring smile as he turned around to the Synth. Nick cocked his head to the side with a scoff, folding his arms across his chest.

“That’s bullshit. And damn it, if we’re going to work together on this, at least one of us has to be honest. So I’m going to say it straight.” Nick said with a glare, and Deacon’s response died in his throat before he could get it out. The look on Nick’s face told him this was something he’d been thinking about for a while. He pleaded silently for him to keep his mouth shut for a bit longer before he said- “You shouldn’t be walking after a hit like that. But you are. I reckon that you’re a Synth.”

Deacon’s heart lodged in his throat, threatening to strangle the easy smile that he kept in place. Fuck. _Fuck_. He knew he wasn’t exactly subtle, it was impossible when you were like him. He was hoping he’d have more time before Nick called him out though. The logical thing would be to laugh it off and ditch Nick. Fuck this partnership, he could do this on his own. It was the safe thing to do, if nothing else.

Ha. And people wondered why he worked alone.

“Nicky, I wish I was a Synth.” He laughed, and Nick frowned and waited for him to continue, “I’ve just got a tiny mutation that lets me heal super fast. Uh, it’s a bit embarrassing actually, I don’t really want anyone to know about it. I grew four extra arms too, but I got a doctor to remove it from me. It’s no biggie.”

Deacon didn’t realise he was waiting for a laugh until it didn’t happen. His heart dropped as Nick let out a sigh that sounded completely exhausted. His synthetic eyes really shouldn’t be able to express as much emotion as they did. But whatever spark of consciousness that was lit up in that synthetic brain of his was conveying one feeling very clearly to him.

Disappointment. His stomach did something weird when he recognised it. He couldn’t stop his eyes dropping away from Nick’s in something that felt worryingly like shame.

No. No, there was no reason for him to be ashamed for lying. That’s what he’s been doing ever since he started existing to survive, he refused to feel bad for it now. Nick had no right to go butting into his shit like this. He clenched his jaw and his fist, but no matter what he did he couldn’t bring himself to look back up.

“One of these days you’re gonna run out of lies.” Nick said softly, and Deacon laughed bitterly as he stared at an old piece of trash that the wind blew through the alley they were standing in. The sun was setting, and casting long shadows on the two of them. He should leave. Now would be the best time to before he somehow blew everything and showed all his cards.

His abdomen gave a twinge as he shifted, and he froze in place to stop himself from pressing a hand to his stomach. Nick either caught the movement or saw a flash of pain on his face, because with a sigh he stepped back into Deacons personal space. A flash of panic burnt through him as his shirt was pulled up out of the scavenged dress pants. He grabbed Nick’s forearm to stop him as he stared at the Synth with wide eyes. Nick looked back, and waited.

Deacon swallowed hard; he needed to go. Right now before Nick saw the healed skin. He tried to move his legs, but his feet were glued to the ground as Nick stared him down.

“Let me help you.” He said, a small frown tugging at his face. Deacon’s heart pounded in his chest as he tried to get his legs to move again, but they once again refused.

“You can’t.” Deacon snapped back, finding it hard to strangle the words out. He didn’t think they were talking about the bullet wound anymore.

“Kid, I don’t know what you’re running from. I don’t know what happened that made you think you need to lie about every god-damned thing you say. I get the feeling you don’t trust easy, and I also get the feeling you have good reason for that. And I don’t know what the hell I did to make you think you had to do any of that with me. I’m use to people taking one look at me and not trusting me.” Nick said, waving the metal hand that wasn’t being gripped by Deacon over his face. He felt a flash of offence at being compared to synth haters, but held tight, “I’m not use to it _not_ being the damn reason, and I reckon you fall into that. But maybe...”

Nick trailed off, yellow eyes flicking to the side in thought before looking back up at Deacon.

“Look, everything that makes me who I am, from the way I speak to the way I act was taken from an old detective’s memories from before the bombs. I have some memory from my time in the Institute. You know, labs and testing rooms and all that useless shit. I woke up in a heap of trash in the middle of damn nowhere eighty years or so back. With barely any memories of who the hell this Nick Valentine guy was rattling around in my head. If you’re afraid that I’m gonna go yapping about you, or the Railroad, or anything you tell me, it ain’t gonna happen. I’m their garbage. They wouldn’t want me if I tried, and trust me when I say I’d rather die before those bastards got anything from me.”

 _But what if they don’t need your permission_ , Deacon wanted to say. _But what if they didn’t throw you out. You weren’t there for it when they were covering everything up. There’s no way they’d leave a loose end like you. What if you’re a trap._

But he didn’t voice any of these. If he was being honest with himself - which he hated to do - against his better judgement he’d stopped seriously thinking about that in their last time loop. It was just him and his fucking inability to let anyone too close. It was all good when Nick thought he was just an average Synth, but how long would it take him to figure out he was a killing machine? A thing built with the sole purpose of dragging good people like Nick back to the hell hole that he’d somehow escaped. Your average Wasteland synth didn’t instantly heal wounds without even a trace left. Not much was known about the bio-engineered synths, but that was obvious enough.

Everyone, not just Nick, would be out for his blood. Say goodbye to whatever standing he had in the Railroad, and say a cheerful hello to the grave he’d be in after Desdemona was finished with him. Maybe High Rise would come to his grave now and then; that would be nice. Even if it was to spit on it.

And if the word ever got out about who he was, even if he survived the initial fallout, the eyes of the Institute would be right on him. He wouldn’t be able to stop whatever they wanted to do to him. The thought of running into Zimmer again sent chills through him, nausea threatening to make him retch up the little he had in his stomach. He couldn’t risk it, not even little clues that most wouldn’t ever to think to connect. Because some, like Nick, eventually would.

But even as all this was running through his head, Nick’s whole demeanour radiated sincerity. Nick Valentine must have been one hell of a cop back in the day. Because even with the war raging in his head, he couldn’t help but be struck dumb by how utterly dependable the Synth felt in that moment. And fuck if that wasn't something he was desperate for.

It was so stupid. But apparently he was too, so maybe that’s what inspired him to loosen the grip he had of Nick’s arm. The detective, to his credit, didn’t move until Deacon’s hand slipped off him and hung at his side. Deacon broke their eye contact, looking past his shoulder as he set his jaw.

Nick lifted his shirt up, and he purposely didn’t look at his face as he heard a grunt of surprise. From experience he knew not even a scar would be left. For a moment he thought wildly of a way to explain that away when the bloody evidence of a critical gunshot wound was on his shirt for all to see. There was silence for a few moments before the Synth spoke again.

“So, I’m guessing it healed with the bullets still in there?”

“Nah, my body absorbs lead.” Deacon said with a grin, it was only practice that kept it from being shaky. Nick gave him a look that was only betrayed by the twitch at the corner of his own mouth. The tension in the air relaxed a fraction. The Synth adjusted his hat, seemingly just for something to do with his hands, before catching Deacon’s eyes again.

“Is that gonna be a problem for you?”

“Eh, I’ve had worse. I’m good.” He said with a shrug. He pivoted on his heel, turning back to the way they were going before...all that happened. It didn’t count as running away if he didn’t actually run, did it? He could feel Nick’s eyes glued to the back of his head, undoubtedly curious. He hoped Nick would drop it here, that this small amount of trust from him was enough for the Synth. The dread in his chest said otherwise, but for now, he didn’t want to think on it.

It was getting cold; they really should start to hustle before night fell.

“...Wait. Did I hear you wrong or did you say you had memories from _before the war?!”_

...

Diamond City was busy as always, and he wished everyone would stop shooting him curious glances as they approached the Detective to chat. Nick spoke pleasantly with them, and Deacon stood in the background as he waited for the man to stop socialising. He smiled and gave a cheerful wave at anyone who looked at him for more than a couple of seconds. That seemed to diffuse any suspicion the people of the city had about him as he stood patently behind Nick. It was surprising to witness in person how many people liked Nick. Not that it was hard; even Deacon had warmed up to him over time, and admittedly that was like pulling teeth. But the man was so unapologetically synth, and people here seemed to look past that...

Well, Deacon wasn’t use to it.

But it did give him a trembling hope for the future of the Commonwealth.

Ellie was more than pleased to see Nick as they walked into the Detective’s Agency. Even from behind Nick, he could see the moment when Ellie looked up at them, a wide smile stretched across her face as she bounced up from her seat.

“Nick! Welcome back, I was starting to get worried.” She said, walking around the desk to envelop the detective in a tight hug. Nick grinned and hugged her back, and Ellie laughed as the detective leaned back. He picked her up for a second before putting her back on the ground.

“I was too, but then my friend here bust me out of a hell of a situation.” Nick said gesturing towards Deacon. Ellie’s eyes pinned him to the wall, and he withered as he felt the sensation of being x-rayed. It looked like Ellie had picked up a few tricks from Nick, then.

She must have found something she was looking for, because that sunny smile was back on her face. She stepped up to him and held a hand out to shake.

“Thanks for dragging this guy out of whatever shit he got himself into this time.” She said cheerfully, and Deacon took her hand with a smile of his own, “I might have to call on you in the future, Nick’s a bit of a magnet for trouble.”

“Nick is also behind you, and can hear everything you’re saying.” The detective grumbled under his breath, but he didn’t try and hold back the grin that was pulling at his lips.

“Well maybe Nick should listen for once, and stop trying to get himself killed.” Ellie shot back, and Deacon snorted a surprised laugh as Nick pulled a face at her. Ellie turned back to him, ignoring Nick as the Synth walked over to the desk to check the file Ellie was working on before they entered. “Stick around for dinner, our shout. It's the least we can do for putting up with him.”

“Oh it was no trouble, I only had to put down a few gangs Super Mutants to get to him.” He said with a grin as Ellie’s eyes widened in shock, “Only one of them had a rocket launcher. Just another Tuesday for me.”

“Don’t listen to him Ellie.” Nick butted in, putting the file down and turning to face them, “He’s got a thing for makin’ up stories.”

“How dare you,” He gasped, “The nerve, especially after I saved your synthetic ass. Nick doesn’t know what he’s taking about, Ellie. He’s dazed and confused from my daring rescue.”

“When you talk? I’m always dazed and confused.” Nick scoffed, and Deacon barked out another surprised laugh. Ellie was looking between them with an unreadable expression. Deacon’s mood faltered a bit at the intense, thoughtful looks she was giving them. The hell was she thinking so hard about?

“You two seem familiar with each other.” She said slowly, turning to look at Nick with raised eyebrows.

“Well, it’s not the first time me and dear Nick have crossed paths, you see.” Deacon said with a shrug, and Ellie looked at him waiting for him to elaborate. He did, and winked as he said, “You did say he was a trouble magnet, not the first time I’ve pulled him from the jaws of death. Those jaws just happened to be attached to a Deathclaw, last time.”

Ellie looked back at Nick for confirmation, and the Synth shrugged. Whatever that communicated, Ellie picked up on it, and it seemed enough to persuade her.

“Well, that’s all the more reason for you to stick around.” She said, and to Deacon’s surprise latched herself on his arm and pulled him away from the door and further into the room. “I have to know more about the guy who’s charmed Nick Valentine.”

...

Forty minutes later found Deacon giggling into a bowl of noodles as Ellie and Nick snipped back and forth at each other. Ellie had her own bowl, but unlike Deacon waited until she swallowed before she said something back at Nick. He’d perched himself up on a desk and let Ellie and Nick take the chairs, kicking his legs back and forth as he watched the two.

They had obviously been around each other for a long while. Ellie was leaning back in an old wooden chair that looked like it would break at any moment. She was laughing at Nick, who’d bent over the desk to look at the papers she was holding and accidentally dunked his tie into Ellie’s noodles. The fabric was dripping with the noodle broth, and he brightened when Deacon leaned over to pick up what looked like a dusting rag from the table. Chucking it at the Synth, he spluttered when the cloth slapped him in the face, and Nick scowled over at Ellie when she doubled over in laughter.

It was...surprisingly nice being included in this. The only thing ruining it was the thoughts ticking away in the back of his mind. They only had so much time before Cole would be in Diamond City. He’d left her after she’d gone back to Sanctuary with the Minutemen, and his mental clock was ticking away the time they had left.

They had just over a week before Cole was going to get here, and they still had so much to do. A secure area - preferably not in Diamond City - was crucial if they wanted to make plans. It wasn’t an option to talk on the road, not if Tinker Tom was right about the Institute having cameras everywhere. And knowing the Institute, he wouldn’t put it past them.

The only place he could think of was Ticonderoga, in his personal room there. But the Institute had found the Safe House in the original timeline, so who’s to say they wouldn’t find it faster this time around? There was also the issue that he didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to the Safe House. The other options were under too much risk of being invaded by Raiders. Without guards and constant habitation of the space, it would be easy pickings.

Ellie yawned, pulling him out of his thoughts, and she stretched out her arms as she stood and threw the case file on the desk.

“Well, it’s getting late. Hope you don’t mind me leaving the case with you for the night, Nick.” She said before turning to him, “Are you going to be sleeping here tonight, Deacon?”

“Eh, I was thinking of heading over to the Dugout.” He shrugged.

“Don’t be annoying, we’ve got spare beds here. Save your caps.” She said, shooting a questioning look over to Nick, “Right?”

“I ain’t exactly using them, feel free to stay.” Nick nodded at Deacon. He almost missed the wink Ellie threw at the detective, who levelled an unimpressed stare at the woman. He frowned in confusion as he looked back and forth between the two. They really didn’t need words to communicate, did they?

“Right, well I’m off. See you tomorrow!” She said cheerfully, and he waved as she left the building, the door clicking closed behind her. The mood in the small space shifted, and he felt his guard solidify as he turned back to the Synth.

“Okay, as much as I love fun social times, we gotta start planning. Should have started like, last week.” Deacon said, swinging his legs up to cross them.

“Last week we were three weeks into the future.” Nick said with a tired sigh.

“Don’t be difficult, that’s my job and I don’t like sharing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ellie knows what's up.
> 
> Shameless promotion time! Here's my tumblr: http://stresselephant.tumblr.com/  
> Come have a chat, I do art sometime's as well!


	7. The Curse No Man Can Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter:
> 
> “Eh, I was thinking of heading over to the Dugout.” He shrugged.
> 
> “Don’t be annoying, we’ve got spare beds here. Save your caps.” She said, shooting a questioning look over to Nick, “Right?”
> 
> “I ain’t exactly using them, feel free to stay.” Nick nodded at Deacon. He almost missed the wink Ellie threw at the detective, who levelled an unimpressed stare at the woman. He frowned in confusion as he looked back and forth between the two. They really didn’t need words to communicate, did they?
> 
> “Right, well I’m off. See you tomorrow!” She said cheerfully, and he waved as she left the building, the door clicking closed behind her. The mood in the small space shifted, and he felt his guard solidify as he turned back to the Synth.
> 
> “Okay, as much as I love fun social times, we gotta start planning. Should have started like, last week.” Deacon said, swinging his legs up to cross them.
> 
> “Last week we were three weeks into the future.” Nick said with a tired sigh.
> 
> “Don’t be difficult, that’s my job and I don’t like sharing.”

“So I guess I’ll start us off by asking how we’re going to deal with the problem of those bullets.” Nick said after a few seconds.

Deacon held up a finger for silence and he stood, making sure to keep the weight on his feet light as he stepped around the desk. Nick eyed him curiously as he moved into the corners of the room, shuffling objects to the side and running his fingers behind the cinder blocks against the walls.

“What are you-”

“Shh.” He hushed, waving a hand to shut the detective up. Methodically, he made his way around the agency. Pulling a box full of case files towards him, he checked in between the sheets for any signs of a bug. He pushed each box back into their original place, cutting paths through the dust that had settled on top of the desks.

Dragging Ellie’s chair across the wooden floor boards, he climbed stiffly on top to get a closer look at the support beams that ran across the ceiling. The chair squeaked ominously, and that was enough to get Nick to his side. The Synth put a stabilizing hand on the old chair, and Deacon sent him a nod of thanks before continuing with his search.

Forty minutes later, Deacon had done one of the deepest sweeps he could of the office. He sighed, pulling the chair back where he’d grabbed it from and sitting himself back onto the desk. Nick wasn’t fair behind, falling into his seat with an exaggerated eye-roll.

“We good to talk now, or do you want to check if I’m wearing a wire?”

“Just making sure we haven't been tapped.” Deacon said with a shrug, shooting a cautious glance around him. “The spy in the city could be trying anything, and you might be a target.”

“Because I’m a old useless Synth, yeah?”

“No, because if anyone’s going to sway the Commonwealth’s opinion about Synths being normal people, it’s going to be you.” He said seriously, looking back at the detective. He looked taken back; startled by his words, “That makes you dangerous to them.”

Nick coughed into his fist - a nervous habit, if Deacon had to guess. Not like the detective had anything to clear in his throat - before speaking again. “So, your bullet wound?"

“Well, we won’t be able to do much right now.” He said slowly, shifting on top of the desk, “I’m not going to be very successful at digging around my guts when I heal over every new cut. Got to wait until it’s a bit colder outside”

“Why would that change anything?” Nick took off his hat, sitting the beat up head-wear on the table in front of him. The simple curiosity on Nick’s face stalled him for a second. It fell into a frown, and Deacon blinked when he realised he was staring again. There was something unique about the way Nick looked, even with a face that was cloned on an uncountable number of Synths. Maybe it was just the holes peppering the skin along his jawline; they added their own charm to the overall picture that was Nick Valentine. The range of expressions Nick had control over never ceased to surprise him.

“Well, to oversimplify it; my body repairs and replaces devitalized tissues at a stupid fast pace. It’s a bitch to deal with when this shit happens. Getting real chilly is usually enough to slow down the regenerating cells.” He said, picking up his cold bowl of noodles for something to do with his hands.

_Waste not, want not._

He shoveled the remaining noodles into his mouth.

“I’ll give you a hand later, then.” Nick said, shooting a concerned look at his abdomen. A bubble of self-consciousness filled his chest, and he choked the noodles down to distract himself from it. “I’m still not convinced you’re not internally bleeding.”

“Oh I most definitely am.” He said chirpily, and the alarmed look on the detective's face made him grin, “But I’ll be fine for the foreseeable future. Speaking of which, we should probably be talking about that - considering we’ll most likely be living it a few more times.”

“Nice segway.”

“Thank you!” Deacon beamed, ignoring Nick's dry tone, “So, what have you got for me, mister detective? Give me whatever that brain of yours has been cooking up.”

There was a flash of hesitance over the Synth’s face that had Deacon immediately sitting up straight. His heart beat faster- had Nick actually thought of something?

“I think I saw something.” Nick said slowly, “Just when I came to in the Vault.”

Deacon’s lungs froze as he leaned closer, “What?”

“It sounds ridiculous- I kind of expect you not to believe me. Wouldn’t blame you.” He said with a shrug of a shoulder, “But with what’s been going on, I’d have to be an idiot to just not mention it. Even if i’m half convinced it was just my computer glitching.”

“What did you see?”

“A figure. I couldn’t make out any details, and trust me I was lookin’ for them. It was only a second before they were gone again.” Nick went to continue, but a pained expression washed over his face as he hesitated. Once more, Deacon could read the expression that should have been impossible for Nick to make. The Synth’s face twisted in embarrassment, clicking his mouth shut. 

“Hey man, if you have any kind of lead, I’m not going to turn my nose up at it. This is kind of a clusterfuck of a situation, and I’ve got an actual, genuine detective on my side here.” He stated, moving to slide off the desk as he walked towards Ellie’s abandoned seat. He could feel Nick’s eyes on him as he grabbed the chair, pulling it over to face directly across from Nick. The legs clicked against the floor as he set it down, sitting on it with the back pressed to his chest. Folding his arms over the back of the chair, he leaned forwards to give the Synth his full attention. “So if we’re going full ‘ghosts’ and ‘conspiracy theories’ here, then give me that detectives hat of yours. Cause I always wanted to go ghost hunting.”

He finished that off with a wink, a little impressed with himself as he kept the pain off his face as his side seized up with the movement.

Nick blinked in surprise, before his shoulders slumped in relief. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, kid. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes, but-”

“-but we’re being repeatedly sent back in time, and dismissing things like this just seems stupid at this point,” Deacon finished for him, and Nick flashed a grin at him.

“Right.” Nick said, sitting back in his seat with a thoughtful frown, “There’s...also something else. I don’t know if it’s related, but as you said, dismissing things like this is a dumb as hell decision. It’s along the same vein as ‘mysterious shadow figure’, and...well it’s probably better if I just show you.”

Nick stood from his seat, stepping around Deacon as he disappeared into the back room, coming back with a well worn file in his good hand. Deacon took it from him, letting it fall open and reading down the first page.  


 

> _CASE: The Mysterious Stranger_
> 
>  
> 
> _Sightings of a man dubbed "The Mysterious Stranger" have been popping up sporadically across the old U.S. for years now._
> 
>  
> 
> _Best case, the man's an amoral lunatic._
> 
>  
> 
> _Worst case, a prolific serial killer._
> 
>  
> 
> _All anyone knows is his MO: appearing suddenly, killing without remorse, disappearing without a word. "The Stranger" has no known accomplices, no clear method for selecting his targets, no calling cards left-_

 

“‘Appearing suddenly’”, Deacon quoted, looking back up at Nick. “I’m guessing you're not keeping a file on this dude just because he’s really good at magic tricks.”

“Yeah, when I say that, I mean out of thin air. And disappearing in the same way.” Nick said, sitting back into his chair, “Been on this case for years now, came to a complete stand still around ten years back. Any sightings of him were gone with the wind.”

“Could be Institute tech.” He shot back, chewing over his own point as he frowned thoughtfully back at the file. He didn’t remember any Synths with that M.O, but they could always be apart of the information that had been wiped from his memory when he’d escaped. If that was the case, then this man would have to be critically important to the Institutes cause. Which made him extremely dangerous.

“I was thinking that, or least some Ghoul with access with cloaking tech. But now? Nah- from what I can tell he acts on his own rules.”

 

 

> _SIGHTING LOCATIONS_
> 
> _\- The Commonwealth (confirmed)_
> 
> _\- Capital Wasteland (confirmed)_
> 
> _\- NCR (old rumors)_
> 
> _\- Shady Sands (really old rumors)_
> 
>   
> 

“How old is ‘really old’?” Deacon asked.

“Before even my time.” Nick said, patting his pockets as he spoke. Deacon dug around in his own before pulling out the packet he’d snagged from Nick’s jacket earlier, chucking it over to him with a grin. The Synth caught it easily, blinking down at it before pinning Deacon with an annoyed look. “Making a habit of pick pocketing me, are you?”

“I was gonna give it back when you noticed.” He shrugged. Nick grumbled under his breath as he pulled out a cigarette, throwing the box back onto the table, well within Deacon’s reach. He could recognise an offer when he saw one. Aw, so he really _did_ care. “But go on, give me some dates.”

“Got nothing concrete, but it’s well over a century ago. As I said, it may not even be related. It could really just be some psychotic guy with a long lease on life. But it’s the only lead we got.”

“No clue too small, eh?” He said, folding the file closed and letting it drop onto the table in front of him, “So where does this lead us?”

“I’ve actually been meaning to follow it up, but with no new leads it fell to the wayside in the last couple of years. Last I heard, the only people who even believe this guy exists are the Children of Atom.” Nick said, and it almost made Deacon wish for a glass of water to spit out in a marvelous spray of shock because _that_ was something he was not expecting.

“Those whacko’s?!” He spluttered. There was _no way_ anything that was happening involved them.

“I know how it sounds, I ain’t exactly a fan of them either.” Nick said as lit his smoke, “But you never know. It’s worth checking out.”

Deacon couldn’t fault him on that, he supposed. But if they were going to ask questions than that meant they’d have to go to their church. And he was well aware that their base was located at…

_Oh no._

“Fancy another trip to the Glowing Sea?”

…

Getting the bullets out of his stomach had been painful, bloody, and slightly traumatising. Mostly for Nick, who was still insisting on helping him walk back to the agency. They’d gone well outside the city; it would be hard to explain the blood stains to the Diamond City guards if they left them splattered around the market. Best to just avoid that situation completely by stepping out for a few minutes while they took care of the problem.

But now Deacon had another _problem._

It wasn’t the flesh wound in his stomach. It was still bleeding sluggishly, the chill air nipping at Deacon’s exposed skin and grinding his regeneration to a near halt. He’d warm up when they got back to the agency. In fact, he was starting to warm up already; what with Nick’s side pressed up firmly to his own. The detective was unfairly warm, like a walking and talking heater. His arm was draped across the Synth’s shoulder, Nick supporting him as they made their way back to the city.

And therein lies the problem. Deacon was hyper aware of the fact he was cuddling up to Nick Valentine. And no matter how many times he repeatedly told himself that _‘no, this isn’t cuddling. A friend is helping you walk after you just performed botched surgery on yourself, you idiot.’_  he couldn’t stop his mind wandering back to that exact thought.

_If there is a god, please don’t let me be blushing._

Said detective was shooting him concerned looks as they walked, and Deacon considered the merits of braining himself on the nearest rock as his breath hitched when they made eye contact. Nick’s face was close enough to his own that he could feel the others breath brush against his cheek. He could feel his heart pounding against his ribs, and for a panicked second he wondered if Nick could notice it.

But the Synth wasn’t dropping him and leaving his miserable ass to rot in the street, so he assumed he was safe.

It felt like years had passed by the time they made it back to the city gates. There were four guards stationed there, one of them waving at Nick as he looked curiously over at Deacon.

“Hey Nick, he alright?”

“He’ll be alright Danny, just got to get him inside quick.” Nick said, nodding a hello towards the rest of the security officers. The one that had spoken up was moving quickly to the chain-link fence that separated them from the city inside, opening it and stepping out of their way.

“Thanks for the concern, buddy.” Deacon said with a grin, giving a thumbs up as the walked past them. The officer smiled back, closing the gate behind them. He was very briefly confused as to why none of them seemed to remember the sickly farmer that had come in a few weeks before, before he remembered.

Ah, this was an alternate timeline. Right.

It was already a little warmer inside the city, with the high walls blocking the worst of the wind. Nick held on tighter as they made their way down the stairs into the market, his metal hand squeezing his hip when Deacon almost stumbled. His mind went completely blank as he was pulled tighter to Nick’s chest, and he had to lock down a hysterical laugh at his predicament.

The usual dusty smell of the market was missing as they made their way through it and towards the agency’s glowing sign.

_Just ignore it, and it’ll go away._ He told himself firmly as Nick opened the door for them. They shuffled their way in, and Deacon fell back into a chair with a grateful groan as Nick _finally_ pulled away from him. The loss of warmth to his side sent a pang through his chest, and he slapped a hand over his eyes in irritation.

He couldn’t believe himself, sometimes. Where the fuck had all this come from?

“Are you alright?” Nick’s voice cut clearly through the air, and Deacon peeked through the gaps in his fingers. The Synth was leaning his hip against the desk, frowning down Deacon and flicking his eyes to where the healing wound was.

He could already feel the skin knitting itself together.

“Perfectly fine.” He said, slipping a smile on his face and letting his hand drop away. “Just tired, do you have somewhere I can crash? I’m not fussy.”

He felt his smile almost falter at the detective’s skeptical look, but the synth just sighed. “Well, it’s not like you shouldn’t be getting rest after that anyway. Beds in the back room, need help getting there?”

“Nope!” Deacon said, popping the ‘p’ as he sprang to his feet. His side flared in protest, and he ignored it as he retreated. Nick was looking at him with an odd expression, but for once he didn’t want to know what the other man was thinking. He threw a quick “good night” over his shoulder as he ducked around the corner. 

It could hardly be called a room, but even just a wall between him and Nick helped him relax. He sat down heavily on the bed, the springs squeaking under him loudly. Burying his face in his hands, he took a moment to just breathe.

This was bad.

…

“I don't know why we even bother to leave.” Deacon whined, hands wrapped tightly around his laser pistol as the two of them trudged further into the Glowing Sea. Even as he spoke, he cast his eyes warily around them. They could hardly see in the smog that clung in the air, staining it an unpleasant sickly yellow. Everything was quiet; they had yet to run into anything too dangerous, and he wanted to keep it that way. The quicker they could leave, the better. They had a tight schedule to stick to, after all. “Apparently, this is where all the action is.”

“I'd have to set up the agency here. I don't suppose the ghouls would be in need of a private investigator.” Nick said from ahead of him. He was just as alert, pipe pistol held ready. The wind kicked up, and Nick had to slap a hand over his hat to keep it from blowing away as they were buffeted.

The wind sent an unpleasant zap of radiation across his skin, and he did a quick count of how much time had passed since he'd taken his last rad-x. Two hours.

He could take another one soon, right?

His stomach rolled unpleasantly. Fuck it, he’d take one anyway. And then maybe some rad-away when they took their next break.

“You'd have plenty of missing person cases.” He said as he pulled the pill bottle from his jeans pocket, shaking a few into the palm of his hand. He didn't miss the side-eye Nick threw at him, but ignored him as he swallowed the meds. “Maybe a couple purse snatchers. Some Deathclaw pets going missing. Who knows; this is the wild west of the Commonwealth. Anything could happen.”

It didn’t take long from them to reach the crater from that point, and by then Deacon was sweating through his shirt. The thick, hot air clung to every part of him, making even breathing a chore. The faint taste of iron in his mouth was getting stronger the closer they got, which had him looking at the people milling around inside incredulously. How were these guys still alive?

To be fair, they didn’t look completely alive. He followed behind Nick - the lucky bastard wasn’t feeling any side effects - down the precarious steps that led into the crater. The small huts built around the bottom looked old and worn, even more so than was normal in the wasteland.

The community had stopped what they were doing to stare at them as they approached. Each one had an unpleasant colour to their skin, and Deacon passed one close enough to see their eyes were bloodshot- the whites turned a dark red. His own eyes itched in sympathy.

Someone stepped out of one of the metal shacks at the bottom of the crater, turning to them with a curious tilt to their head. Nick slowed as the person started to approach; they were deathly thin, clothes hanging off their shoulders like a rack. He looked just as sick as the rest, but his back was rod straight and confident. Deacon could almost convince himself that this person was completely fine just based on the easy way he moved,

“Sorry about dropping in on you like this,” Nick spoke up, keeping his voice friendly with a smile. His hands were held up by his shoulders, showing he was disarmed. With a good amount of doubt, Deacon followed his lead. His hands itched to at least rest on his pistol, but he’d rather get out of this situation without being shot at with gamma guns. He was already shocked he wasn’t glowing with how much radiation he’d sucked down. “ But we just had some questions that need answerin’. Is there someone we can speak to?”

“Strangers, you are trespassing on holy ground.” The man said, frowning at them.

“And we’ll be out of your hair if we can just talk to someone.” Nick continued, taking a cautious step forward. The atom worshiper too a step back, snarling as his hand jumped to the gamma gun strapped to his hip.

Deacon’s own hand went to snap down to his own as alarm shot up his spine. Nick stopped him; wrapping a firm hand around his wrist. The synth still only had eyes for the cult member in front of them.

“You are dishonoring Atom by loitering here. Move on and I won’t kill you.”

“Hey now, let’s just slow down a bit.” Deacon said. Nick shot him a pointed look, before letting go of his arm. The message was clear, ‘don’t shoot’. He felt a little irritated at that- he didn’t solve _all_ his problems through violence. It was just very convenient to, and he’d felt better with a hand on his gun. “We’ve heard all about Atom, consider us very impressed. In _awe_ , even. We have a few questions about the other aspects though. Getting to know everything about a cult before you join is just smart religion practice, yeah?”

The stick-like man hesitated for a moment, and Deacon’s eyes zeroed in on how his hand twitched over his gun. The decision was taken out of his hands when a voice behind him spoke.

“Hello, children. Please, if you have questions you are more than welcome.” A woman, almost as thin as the man, stepped out of the metal shed at the base of the crater. Another girl beside her retreated away, and Deacon recognised her as one of people who’d first noticed them as they were coming down the stairs, “Brother Foster, please step aside. Brother Ogden has requested your help with the crops.”

The man - Brother Foster, apparently - clenched his jaw, before finally taking his hand away from his gun. He backed up, leaving the three of them standing alone.

And all Deacon could think was _they can grow crops here?!_

“Atom provides us with everything we need.” The lady said with a smile, as if she’d read his mind. He stifled a shiver. “Please, follow me up to my shed. If you wish to ask me questions, it’s best done somewhere in comfort.”

“This seems like a hard place to find that.” Deacon said before he could stop himself, earning a sharp jab from Nick’s elbow into his ribs. The woman just smiled, not saying anything more before turning and walking up the crater towards a wooden shed perched on the incline.

She led them inside, and Deacon scanned the room to check the exits. There was only one other besides the one behind him.The cultist gestured towards a couple of scattered wooden chairs around an old table. Nick sat without complaint, Deacon following and stuffing down the voice in his head saying standing would be better if he needed to escape quickly. But that was hardly polite, and right now the pressing concern was not to piss off these people.

“My name is Mother Isolde,” The woman said, sitting down across from them. She held her hands in her lap, back straight, “How can I help you children?”

Deacon glanced at Nick, catching his eye as the synth did the same. Nick’s raised eyebrow seemed to say what Deacon was thinking. It was apart of their religion, he was sure, but being called a child was nothing short of bizarre.

“Ah, yes.” Deacon spoke up. What was the best way to go about asking something like this? He wasn’t entirely sure, but there was a trick to getting information from radical groups. When in doubt, conform. “We met some of your missionaries in the Wastes, and to be honest we were liking what we were hearing.”

“Oh?”

“Well, it’s just…” His voice trail off, and he let his eyes drop into his lap. “Everything is destroyed. I _know_ people, no one would just drop a bomb that would cause all this without a reason, you know?”

“My child, nothing was destroyed. The Great War was caused to _create._ ” Mother Isolde leaned over the table, putting a hand over his own. Deacon gave her a grateful smile, “Do not worry, death is but a celebration of life.”

“That’s... _so_ comforting to hear.” He sighed, leaning back in his seat. He took a beat to consider his next words, “We’ve heard rumors about your beliefs.”

“As have many in the Wastes. The word of Atom has been carried through the Commonwealth, although some don’t have the full picture.”

“Do you mind filling in some gaps for us?”

“That depends on what you already know.” She said, nodding encouragingly, “Tell me what the missionaries passed on.”

Deacon dug deep in his memories, pulling up pieces of information he’d collected throughout the years. “Well,” He started slowly, “ You worship Atom, or ‘The Glow’. Pretty sure that’s what you call him.”

“The Glow is the earthly embodiment of the creation deity Atom.”

“Right. You also locate and defend highly irradiated areas, as well as nuclear weapons.” Deacon had found out that one the hard way; one of his scouting parties for the Railroad had been almost killed a couple years back. The moment they’d stepped on ‘holy ground’, they’d been shot at. Deacon stopped himself from glancing at the woman’s Gamma gun strapped to her hip; he’d seen what they were capable of.

“That is but a small portion of our beliefs, you’re missing the core of what we preach.” Mother Isolde said with a patient smile. “Imagine for a moment, that the world is much more vast than you may think. Our universe, in the grand scheme of things, is but a tiny component.”

Deacon perked up, “Oh?”

“Tell me, why do you think Atom is considered a creation deity?”

“Uh,” He paused, not sure where this was going. He glanced at Nick, who just sat looking over Mother Isolde with a neutral expression. No help coming from him, then. “You said the Great War was caused to create. Does it have something to do with that?”

“I do hope you let me finish my explanation before interrupting. This is usually where we lose most our new recruit attempts. It may sound fanatical, but I speak nothing but the truth,” At their nods, she continued, “Every atomic mass in all of creation contains its own universe. One universe becomes two when an atom splits. We call this Division, and it’s the single greatest act of creation that can happen in our world. Just imagine the scale that this happened within a few seconds in the Great War; Atom is a creation deity because he created _hundreds_ of new universes. _Millions_ of new life forms were made just from that single event within our own universe. We worship The Glow, because they can transform us into something better.”

Deacon latched onto the last comment, ”'Transform you into something better’. Do you mean that in general, or specifically those who worship them?”

“We too can achieve Division. The atoms inside of us contain worlds beyond imagination, child. When The Glow breaks us apart, those worlds are released. We are reborn in the universes we create.” She said, gesturing to the door, “That is why we find radiation sites to create churches, such as this one. We live here, worship here, and when Atom deems us worthy, rewards us.”

Deacon sat quietly, absorbing the information. She was right, it _did_ sounds fanatical. An interesting philosophy, but he still couldn’t pinpoint anything that helped them with their ‘disappearing immortal people’ problem. Couldn’t hurt to be a little more direct, could it?

“That sounds fascinating. Atom truly is impressive, eh Nick?”

“Uh, yeah. Real interesting stuff.” Nick said, looking at Deacon as he was put on the spot.

“Nick here is a detective,” He turned back to Mother Isolde, who was watching the Synth. “And he’s seen some interesting stuff.”

“Nick Valentine; yes I’ve heard of you. You’ve tracked some of our recruits to holy ground across the Commonwealth.”

“Just making sure they weren’t dead. Families get worried when their loved ones skip town without a note.” Nick replied with a smile that looked a little tight. To Deacon's trained ears, he could hear the cutting sarcasm starting to peek through, and it was his turn to elbow the Synth to shut up.

“Yeah, well, as I said he’s seen some things. We were wondering if you had answers for us.” Deacon said, bringing the attention of Mother Isolde back to himself.

“What has he been seeing?”

“Well, at first it was this man who’d appear out of nowhere. Comes to help people out of tough fights, and doesn’t seem to mind which side he’s on. From what I know he’s been doing this for over a century.” Deacon said, watching carefully as the woman’s face slipped into something thoughtful, “And recently, a shadow figure.”

Mother Isolde’s eyes widened, looking at Nick with something like shock. “What did this shadow figure look like?”

“Didn’t see much of them.” Nick shrugged.

“Did it look like a woman?”

“Might have. Again, only saw them for a second.”

Mother Isolde placed her arms on the table, intertwining her hands as she muttered to herself, “How interesting.”

“You know what they are?” Deacon pushed, leg fidgeting as his excitement spiked.

“Perhaps. The first person you spoke of is widely known as the Mysterious Stranger. To us, he is something more than just a ghost who appears at random times to lend assistance to those that need it. A divine entity sent across the multi-verse by Atom himself. The second figure...is less well known. Even amongst our brothers and sisters who live here. It is strange that your friend has seen her without the necessary ceremony. She’s not known for showing herself in the Commonwealth.

To those who are blessed with the knowledge, we call her the Mother of the Fog. Both she and The Stranger are Saints of Atom, carrying out The Glows will in the earthly plane.”

“What do you mean she’s doesn’t show herself in the Commonwealth?” Deacon asked. Mother Isolde hesitated, looking between them warily. He had the feeling he’d touched upon sensitive information. Someone other than Deacon might have backed off here, but his curiosity was a burning flame at this point.

“...I’d be surprised if you had heard of it, but there is another church not too far from the Commonwealth. When I was first leading our people out of the Capital Wasteland, there was another leader who went with me. However, we had some...disagreements. Confessor Martin claimed he had been contacted by one of Atom’s Saints to move our people to Far Harbor. I did not believe him.” She said, giving Nick an appraising look, “From what the messages our churches send each other say, the Mother of the Fog shows herself to the newly enlightened on the Island. It might benefit you to visit, if the Mother has shown herself to you.”

A loud cracking of thunder boomed through the small hut, making everyone jump and automatically reach for their weapons. Nick let out a sigh, annoyed at his own jumpiness. Deacon just turned and leaned back over his chair, trying to catch a good look at the sky outside. It was only slight cloudy, still tinted the normal light green. The storm must be coming from the opposite side then.  

_Shit._ He cursed to himself, tapping anxiously on the table. They were already short on time before Cole made it to Diamond city. He’d planned to power through the nights travelling back to make it before she did. If they got caught in the storm, there was a very real possibility they’d miss her. And then….what would they do? Everything would become unpredictable, and that thought made his stomach ill.

“Sorry to cut this short, but me and Nick are on a bit of a time schedule. We should go now if we want to beat that storm.” Deacon said, standing and patting his pockets to make sure everything was in place.  

“You’re welcome to shelter here out of the rain.” Mother Isolde said, but Deacon just gave her a kind smile. Nick followed his lead, getting to his feet and stepping up next to him.

“Thank you, but no. Duty calls, you understand.” He said. Staying here in this crater while being doused with even more radiation made him want to wrinkle his face in distaste. It was another reason to leave quickly. The taste of iron in his mouth was already getting stronger.

Mother Isolde walked them out, and they left more peacefully than they arrived. Brother Foster was shooting them suspicious looks from across crater, but he stayed away.

Luckily for them, the storm was coming from the opposite direction they were heading. Deacon set a quick pace, pretending not to notice the way Nick was tracking the progress of the storm and looking more and more concerned as time went by. A few glowing Mole Rats slowed them down, but they were down soon enough with a couple of shots from Deacon’s laser pistol.

They’d just made it to the outskirts of the Glowing sea when, with another crack of thunder, rain poured down from the sky. The air was filled with the sizzling feeling of radiation, and almost instantly Deacon’s skin began to itch.

“Dammit.” He muttered, digging around in his pockets to find his Rad-X. The last pill rattled around inside the plastic container. With a sigh, he unscrewed it, knocking the pill back and swallowing. That was not going to last until the storm stopped.

“We need to find shelter somewhere.” Nick said, scanning the horizon for buildings. “I’m pretty sure there’s a place around here we can duck into.”

“We can’t; Cole’s going to be in Diamond City any day now.” He said, stubbornly moving forward. “We’ll be fine, a bit of radiation never hurt anyone.”

“Yeah, right. Even if you don’t end up vomiting every one of your organs up, I’m going to get rusty.” Nick snorted, and Deacon heard his footsteps come to a stop. Deacon paused, gnawing at his lip.

“If we miss her, we won’t know what will happen next.”

“And if you die ‘cause you were too stubborn to find cover in a rad storm, we’ll just start all over again.”

_Maybe that’s for the best._ He turned the thought over in his head as he considered it. Going back would buy them more time, if nothing else. It would also cover their tracks if someone was watching. They couldn’t be tracked back to the Children of Atom if they never technically went there. If Deacon could erase all evidence that they were investigating this, he would.

Apparently, his silence went on a little too long. Nick’s good hand wrapped itself around his shoulder, the Synth was frowning at him.  

“Come on, if I remember correctly there’s a place east from here.”

“Twist my arm, why don’t you.” Deacon grinned, rolling his eyes as he shrugged off the hand.  

Still, he followed Nick as the dirt slowly turned into radiated mud. By the time they’d reached a small, mostly intact house Deacon could once again feel blood pooling in his gums. The door was boarded shut, which was a good sign that nothing too horrible would be waiting inside. With a few good shoves with their shoulders, the old wood splintered under their combined strength, letting them push and yank at the stubborn door until there was a gap big enough to slip into.

Deacon went first, poking his head inside to check for immediate threats. The smell of decaying dust hit him like a hammer, and he moved a hand up to cover his nose as he inched inside. Like many of the houses in the Commonwealth, it looked frozen in time. Old couches that were falling apart sat in the main room, frayed carpet trapped under the chairs. A long since broken TV sat on the opposite side of the room, surrounded with walls and walls of framed images. A hallway to the left of him opened up into the kitchen, a skeleton slumped on the dining table, ammo and a gun set up next to them.

Nothing living moved, but Deacon knew better than to trust that.

Staying crouched, Deacon moved forward. Nick was close behind, gun drawn and moving swiftly. As a unit, the checked the rooms. Deacon ducked to check for ghoul’s hiding under any of the destroyed beds. They came back clean, and Deacon picked his way over to the skeleton. The bones had long since turned white and grey with age. He could only guess what had killed them in the end. The gun next to them suggested that they’d holed up here after the first bomb.

He picked up the 10mm pistol to inspect it as a thought passed through his head, and he snorted before turning to Nick.

“How many universes do you think that guy had in him?”

“Not enough to justify the bombs.” Nick said, frowning down at the bones. “What a load of horseshit.”

“What, don’t believe it? It’s interesting at least.” Deacon said, thinking back to what Mother Isolde had been saying. Interesting indeed, “You heard about this Far Harbor place?”

“Yeah. If we’re going to go, we’re going to need a boat.”

“I’ll eat your hat if you find a working boat.” He scoffed, shoving the gun into his belt and grabbing the ammo.

“I might be able to, actually.” Deacon blinked at the Synth, surprised. He actually seemed serious. His brows were furrowed below his hat, eyes distant. If Deacon had to guess, he’d say the Synth was scrolling through his mental contacts.

“So what...we’re actually gonna go? Correct me if I’m wrong but I could have just sworn you said that was all ‘horseshit’.”

“There’s usually at least some truth in lies.” Nick said with a shrug. He focused, putting his attention back on Deacon and quirking his lips into a small handsome smile, “Would have thought you’d know that. Aren’t you supposed to be the expert?”

Deacon didn’t bother to reply verbally, instead reaching out a hand and batting the detectives hat off his head. Nick’s offended ‘Hey!’ was left behind him as Deacon retreated back to the living room, flopping down onto the couch with a tired groan. Today had been a lot. He didn’t need Nick smiling at him like that on top of it all. He’s head was already too full of thoughts.

He coughed as a dust cloud flew into the air as he landed on the cushions.

“Come on, you don’t need to be inhaling that shit on top of the radiation dose you just got. Radiation settles in dust, you know,”

“It does?” He said, pushing his face away from the cushions. He scowled down at it; he couldn’t get a break, could he?

“Yeah,” Nick said, settling down besides him as Deacon sat up, “Before the war really got started, everyone got flooded with facts about fallout and how to survive a nuclear bomb threat. Fat lot of help it did.”

“How much pre-war stuff do you even remember?”

“Nick’s memories are spotty at best,” The Synth said with a shrug, “I remember some important things. Mostly it’s how the coffee machine in the office sounded like it was grinding rocks instead of caffeine.”

Deacon leaned back into the cushion, wondering just where the line between Nick the Human and Nick the Synth was. The detective seemed to think of them as two separate people, at least. But Deacon knew better then some about how complex things got after having someone else’s memories rattling around in your head.

Harkness floated to the front of his mind, and Deacon frowned at the complicated mess of feelings it brought with him. He’d lived as that man for years; fought for his beliefs because _he_ cared for them too. Or at least, he thought he did. Did having something implanted in your mind stop it from being a part of you? The things that you’d been forced to care about didn’t just disappear, even after getting your memories back. Even today, Deacon had an odd fondness for the boat he’d been the head guard on. It had been awful; the people had been even more unpleasant than the constant reeking smell of rotting Mirelurk that had always clung to his clothes.

His chest was stinging, and it had nothing to do with the radiation. He rubbed at the uncomfortable feeling, glancing over at Nick who also seemed lost in his own thoughts.

“So what was this Nick guy like? As much as a stand up guy as you, or was he running on the edge of the law?” He asked as he moved to pull out the last bit of rad-away from his jeans pocket. The plastic sleeve was a quarter of the way full, the top half of the plastic rolled tightly to stop it from leaking.

Nick snorted, “Obsessive. Made a good many enemies because of it. Did I tell you he was a detective?”

“You mentioned it.” Deacon said, reaching back into his pocket to pull out the IV that was looped around itself. Nick reached out a hand for it, and he passed it over as he started on unrolling the plastic pack. The synth untangled the IV as he spoke.

“There was this one guy who was a real piece of work. He hated Nick’s guts, but I’d be lying if I said Nick wasn’t the one who started to hate him first. He was a mob boss, worked around Boston killin’ people and robbing them blind. Managed to weasel out of every single charge I put on him, _every single one._ And Nick...well, he didn’t take too kindly to it. He was a man on a mission, and that mission was to get Eddie Winters behind bars.”

Deacon frowned, there was something familiar about that, “I think I’ve heard that name before.”

“A few people have.” Nick said, succeeding in getting the IV straight and ready to use. He gestured for Deacon’s hand, and he only hesitated for a second before giving his arm to the Synth with an sigh. Nick made quick work connecting the IV to the Rad-Away bag, and Deacon felt a prick as the needle was inserted into the inside of his elbow. “You read any of the old Boston Bugels laying around?”

The name clicked in his head, and he took a moment to stare at the detective in shock, “Uh, yeah! Of course I have. _You_ were the detective up against Eddie Winters? It looks like they never stopped talking about the guy. Wasn’t he suspected of most of the crimes in Boston?”

“Yeah, did wonders for his ego too. Smug bastard.” Nick said under his breath, making sure the IV bag was held high enough to keep a steady flow into Deacon blood stream. A heavy silence settled down on top of them as Nick’s face got darker and darker. Deacon had just decided the best course of action was to shut up and let the subject be dropped when the Synth spoke again, “There’s one memory I have that’s so clear, I still get it mixed up with my own sometimes. Nick had a fiancee. Her name was Jennifer Lands, and just before Nick was _finally_ about to get some actual evidence on the scum, he had her shot dead.”

Deacon didn’t know what to say. This had gotten very personal, very quickly. He didn’t mean to bring up memories _this_ bad, and he was fumbling around frantically in his head for something to say. His first instinct was to lighten the mood with something sarcastic, but he bit his tongue hard to stop himself from saying anything. He could be an insensitive idiot sometimes, but Nick was looking like he was ready to snap.

He didn’t trust himself to say something that wouldn’t get him punched.

“And you know the worst of it? I reckon he’s still out there.”

He couldn’t keep back the “What?” that spilled out of his mouth, “Like, ghoulified, or something?”

“ _Exactly_ that. Sealed himself in a bunker under a sub-shop he owned. Wanted to hold up there and step out when the world righted itself again. He was a part of this crazy radiation experiment. Went and turned himself into a ghoul.”

“Sounds like you’ve got your own boogeyman, Nick,” Deacon said, and immediately regretted it. He really shouldn’t be allowed to talk to people about sensitive topics when he wasn’t undercover.

“Well, it’s been on my mind for decades, you wise-ass.” He rolled his eyes, “But if he gets out, he’s going to be the monster people whisper about across the Commonwealth. He’s going to walk into this brave new world, and start his crime empire up again.”

Neither of them spoke until the IV bag was empty, and Nick was pulling out the needle from his arm. Then, very quietly, Nick said, “I was going to ask Cole to help me kill him. She was good in a scrap, the whole incident with Kellog proved that. Even after she ran off in Goodneighbour, I wanted to ask after she got her son back. I thought...well, I guess it doesn’t matter what I thought.”

Deacon looked down into his lap, heart heavy. He'd never really considered the impact Cole’s betrayal would have had on Nick, from the looks of it it seemed like the synth had considered them his friend. Or at least trusted Cole enough to ask them to help with something this personal. He thought back to the first time they had met, in Diamond City. It was a wonder the Synth had taken him at face value when he started claiming Cole had joined the Institute.

“Well, the guy sounds like he's got whatever you have planned coming to him. And you know, if you need someone whining about how much the Waste sucks while you do it, I'm your man.”

That got him a grin from the Synth. “Thanks kid. You're a good person.”

Now _that_ was stretching the truth a bit, but Deacon could already tell he wouldn't get anywhere by arguing it. Outside, the storm still hadn't let up. Wind howled through the holes in the house, and the rain was battering loudly against the roof.

The really were going to miss Cole if the storm didn’t let up by at least midnight. The thought made hin frown deeply, sinking back in the couch. He could feel the building anxiety in the back of his head.

Night came quickly, leaving them nothing to do but chat back and forth as it slowly got darker. Deacon stole Nick’s hat to place over his eyes as he settled back into the old couch, pleased when the Synth didn’t protest against it. He could barely hear the soft, rhythim pumping of Nick’s coolant system over the rain, but it was enough to lull him into a light sleep.

* * *

 

Deacon’s eyes snapped open as soon as he registered the hand on his shoulder. He sat up, his own hand grasping the others tightly. Fingers jerked to his hip for his laser pistol as he turned, reeling back and ready to-

Nick blinked down at him, slowly withdrawing his hand and holding them up in surrender. Deacon’s breath rushed out of him, falling limp back onto the couch. As per Wasteland etiquette; neither on them commented on Deacon’s jumpiness as they started getting themselves together.

Deacon shoved at the door, shouldering it open and squeezing through the small gap. The rain had stopped, replaced with a blazing sun that bared down on them.

The trip across the Waste’s was miserable as always, and every time they stopped to wait out the worst of the night Deacon couldn’t help counting down the time they had left. By the time they’d reached the city, he’d thrown walking to the wind and was running towards the city.

If they could just get there a _little_ bit earlier, they had a chance to catch Cole on her way out. He prayed that she’d spent an extra day with the Minute Men, even if there wasn’t a reason why she would. All he was asking for was this _one_ stroke of luck. He was just asking for one, just this once.

He and Nick burst into the city, Deacon sticking behind Nick as they tried to look casual as they scrambled down the steps. Just as they were speed walking past the noodle stand, a voice called out across the market. Nick stopped, and Deacon didn’t have enough time to react before he bumped into the Synth. They were both sent stumbling forwards, arms flailing towards each other to try and regain their balance.

“Nicky!” The voice called again. It was coming from the woman near the entrance of the markets they’d just walked past. Her hair was dark, dressed in a fancy looking red coat as she jogged her way over. He winced, recognising Piper Write. Deacon shifted from foot to foot, looking in the direction of the Detective Agency while he gnawed on his lip.

He was just about to take off for it when he heard what she said next.

“Someone was looking for you, you just missed them. They gave me a killer story though, wait ‘till you hear this.”

His stomach dropped. So they had missed her. Shit.

“Has it got somethin’ to do with a kidnapped son and a dead husband?” Nick asked, and Piper’s enthusiasm stalled.

“Yeah, exactly that. Did you run into her, then?” Piper said, eyes drifting towards Deacon. She looked him up and down, instantly suspicious of him. Don’t let it be said Piper didn’t have a keen sense of intuition. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“Don’t worry about him,” Nick interrupted, and Deacon had to stop himself from sending a grateful glance at the Synth. “Where’d this lady say she was heading?”

“She was looking for someone to help find her kid. And, well, I remembered that sketchy looking guy that was hanging around with that boy a while ago. Kellog was his name, right?”

“She’s gone after him _alone?!”_

“No! Nick, come on, I wouldn’t send a vaultie out to take on that guy by herself. She needed backup, and you weren’t here. I pointed her towards Goodneighbour, told her to get Hancock on board. As much as he annoys me, this is right up Hancock’s alley. And I know he’s had an eye on bringing down Kellog for a while, now.”

“How long ago was this?” Deacon asked, attention turning back to him.

“Er...early this morning. A good few hours at least.”

“Okay. Okay, well it was lovely to meet you. Nick, we gotta go.” He looped an arm through Nick’s, pulling him back towards the exit. Nick stumbled after him, looking a little shocked that Deacon could still move him so easily.

Ignoring Pipers shout of ‘wait!” behind them, Deacon dragged the both of them out of the city. With a huff, Nick took his arm back, looking at him with irritation.

“One of these days, I’m going to figure out who exactly you are. I haven't met a normal person who could pull my weight. It shouldn’t be possible.”

“You’re not welcome to try.” Deacon said with false cheer, picking up the pace as they made their way out of the gates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, told ya I wasn't abandoning this. It will be completed even if it kills me. 
> 
> Just wanna say thank you to everyone who's commented recently, I'm blown away people are still reading this.


End file.
